


100 Moments

by ianthewaiting



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Play, Anal Sex, Angst, Asphyxiation, BDSM, Blood Kink, Character Death, Dark, Drabble, F/F, F/M, Femslash, First Time, Fluff, Food, Foot Fetish, Gen, Hate Sex, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Male Solo, Multi, Oral, Oral Sex, PWP without Porn, Post Hogwarts AU, Pregnancy, Sibling Incest, Slash, Threesome - F/M/M, Twincest, Vampire Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-11 21:05:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 100
Words: 90,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12943884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ianthewaiting/pseuds/ianthewaiting
Summary: 100 Moments is a drabble series, some connected to each other, some not; some explicit, some not; but all set in the Harry Potter Universe, or should it be 'Alternate Universe?' Various parings, ships, 100 Moments is an exercise that hopefully results in reading pleasure.





	1. #1 - Beginnings - Draco Malfoy/Parvati Patil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #1 – Beginnings, the beginning of the end.

#1 - Beginnings

 

* * *

“Healer Patil, I think you might remember DCI Malfoy from Hogwarts,” Alastor Gumboil said by way of reintroduction, and I sighed.

Healer Patil turned away from the bedside of my subordinate. Flint had really fucked himself this time, but I knew Flint would bounce back soon enough…he always had. But I turned my attentions to Patil, and feigned that I was delighted to make her acquaintance by extending my gloved hand.

“Yes, we were in the same year, Detective Superintendent,” Patil said elegantly, but I could tell she was just as annoyed as I was…

“Yes, well, I’ll leave you two to discuss Flint’s diagnosis…” Alastor said with a grumble, and quickly removed himself from the Spell Damage ward.

It was late, and most of the ward was asleep, the bed-ridden and Confounded Flint included. I stood staring into Patil’s chocolate brown eyes as Alastor’s footsteps faded down the corridor.

“That was awkward,” I whispered stepping toward Patil, my coat swishing about my grey trousers. My hands grasped her waist, and pulled her close…she smelled like antiseptic and potions. The scent wafted up from her robes, but her long raven, plaited hair smelled like jasmine.

“Not here, Malfoy!” she hissed, her small hands pressing against my chest.

I smirked as I guided her effortlessly back into the storage closet at the far end of the ward where shelves upon shelves of potions and other medicines gleamed in bottles in the lamp’s light which hung in the center of the closet. Patil huffed as I shut the door and drew my yew wand to lock and silence the door.

When my wand was stowed, Patil was on me, tearing at the expensive Italian belt and the fly of my trousers.

“Three bloody weeks! Three bloody weeks and I couldn’t do this…” she whispered angrily, falling to her knees before me, pushing me so that I fell back against the door of the closet.

I hummed at her words, my gloved hands tracing the line of her jaw. I was hard…it had been three weeks for me as well. And when she licked the underside of my cock, I sighed.

Five months of Parvati Patil sucking my cock, among other things, had began in the same closet…with Flint in a bed in the ward. I remembered that the first thing I had asked her was: ‘Which Patil are you?’

Parvati…the consort of Shiva. Parvati…my consort at the moment.

She took my length, kneading my sac, but it was not enough after three weeks. Three weeks of me being on a case…three weeks of her being on call at St. Mungo’s. It was not as if we were exclusive, and it was not as if we ever went out on dates either. She had never seen my home and I had never been to her flat. It was this closet or an empty bed on the ward.

Parvati was the foremost researcher and Healer for Spell Damage, and I was the best DCI the Ministry had ever known. Excellence fucks excellence.

The only thing that Parvati was not excellent at was sucking my cock, but she made up for it in other areas and so I grasped her by the forearms and wrenched her to her feet, my cock popping audibly from her mouth.

I twisted her so that she grasped the shelves before me, pushing her full bottom toward me in a position that had become perfunctory in our sessions in the closet. I obliged her by pulling up her robes, her skirts, and pulling aside her plain white knickers.

Parvati Patil had a very ‘pretty’ pussy. I held her skirts with one hand, pulling at her knickers with the other so that the crotch was no longer obscuring my view of the deep pink shade of her labia, the raven curls above her fat clit, and the moisture glistening and literally dripping from her hole.

I did not love Patil, and she did not love me…and it made the fact that she felt so good around my cock even more sweet. Grasping my cock, I aimed for her, and sinking into her body, I hissed. She was tight, she was always tight.

I barely had to thrust for she pushed back against me, so wanton, so pretty…her voice ringing out in a husky tone that made the hairs on my arms stand up. I took hold of her braid and pulled…just the way she liked and I slipped my hips lower, my knees bending. I fucked her, my teeth grinding to keep from spewing obscenities as praise to her divine pussy. Meanwhile, she chanted my name, and whimpered.

I wanted to vanish her Healer’s robes, I wanted to see if her breasts were as pretty as the rest of her. After five months, I had yet to see her totally unrobed. There was no time for that intimacy, and to be fair, she had never seen my body either. Suck my cock and bollocks, of course, but nothing else. We rarely kissed.

I had drowned myself in eating her sweet core, drinking in her soma-like essences…and as much as I worshiped her, I did not love her.

She was panting, and her hips, which I held with one hand, quivered. She had found her completion, and I had not.

When she fell to the floor, her robes falling over her flawless caramel skin, she gazed up at me and my wet cock. I, too, was panting, but I had no desire to rub myself to satisfaction, in fact, my cock was beginning to flag.

“I’m sorry that you…” she started, but thought better of finishing, and let her dark eyes fall to my expensive leather shoes.

I sighed, turning away from her, rearranging myself, zipping up and refastening my belt.

I did not love her, and as much as she aroused me, I could not come. I knew that this was the beginning of the end.

 

* * *

995 words

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 995 words.
> 
> This drabble has a direct connection to my fic The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man.


	2. #2 - Middles - Fred/George/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #2 – Middle(s). In the middle, she was in control

#2 - Middles

* * *

 

 

 

 

The nice part, Hermione Granger, decided early on, was being in the middle of Fred and George Weasley. Logically, it made sense that she was in the middle of two, but it was the best bit of logic to Hermione.

 

 

By being in the middle, she could have one Weasley twin attending to one side, and the other…well…logic.

 

 

Fred Weasley was before her as they lay in the middle of their bed, his lips teasing her own, tongues battling. She lay on her left side, her right leg draped over Fred’s hip, their bodies sliding against each other.

 

 

“So good…” a voice whispered from behind her body.

 

 

George Weasley grasped her waist as his body pressed tighter against her back.

 

 

Hermione groaned as George’s erection poked at her puckered petals, and Fred chuckled softly as the tip of his cock slipped into her core. Together, both men filled her, the excruciating slowness of their penetration causing Hermione to whine with frustration. Four arms held her firmly in place, and two faces pressed into her skin, kissing her throat, kissing the back of her shoulder.

 

 

George moved first, gently, sliding deeper into her, his breath coming out in gasps against her back. He was restraining the natural instinct of his lithe body to move, his hands clenching at the curve of her hip and the back of her hair.

 

 

Hermione held to Fred, curiously watching his face as he rose slightly to glance over her side to his identical self, blue eyes glimmering with desire. When George stretched to meet his brother’s gaze, Hermione choked as the angle shifted and George’s cock slid deeper into her fundament, disturbing the placement of Fred’s organ in her pussy.

 

 

Being in the middle, Hermione could watch the brothers smirk at each other, and then kiss…tongues tangling, blue eyes closing as lips danced and the sound of masculine hums emanated from their wide chests.

 

 

Hermione felt her belly clench at the sight, but as soon as her muscles contracted, the kiss broke and two sets of eyes gazed down at her. They had not forgotten about her—how could they ever forget their witch?

 

 

Fred jerked his hips, and all three whimpered. And so, the dance began, Hermione in the middle of what seemed to become a dance of death, an exquisite death from intense pleasure. Sweat, saliva, secretions, the twins moved on either side of her, manipulating her body so her voice was hoarse from cries, her body convulsing from repeated orgasms.

 

 

In the middle, she was dying, and being reborn every time her two lovers touched her, every time their voices rang out in praise of her body.

 

 

It had started as a series of favours, and had ended with blackmail. Between the two Weasley twins, they had concocted a plan to keep her in their bed as much as possible. In the middle, Hermione was doing Fred and George a favour by filling the gap in their desire.

 

 

George came first, as was expected, given his position, and he bit into Hermione’s shoulder to keep his desperate cry from filling the air around them. Hermione groaned at the slice of teeth into her skin, and held to Fred tighter, pulling his lips to hers as his hips arched up into her pussy. Fred grinned into the kiss, taking control of Hermione’s body since George had begun to pull away.

 

 

Hermione’s head felt as if it were full of water as Fred twisted her and she was suddenly riding him, her hips naturally colliding with his, his cock slipping deeper into her core…

 

 

“Do you like being in the middle, luv?” Fred asked in a strained whisper.

 

 

Hermione could not answer, her dazed eyes moving to George who was smirking at her, his arms raising, hands behind his ginger head. She whimpered as Fred’s fingers found her clit. Pushing her palms into Fred’s muscular chest for balance, she continued to ride.

 

 

“We’ve been thinking…of how long we want to share you, Hermione,” George continued.

 

 

Fred grasped her hips so that he could thrust upwards at a fast, more violent pace. She could tell he was close by the way he pressed his lips together, and the manner in which his ginger brows knotted.

 

 

“Could you…choose…between us?” Fred ground out, pulling Hermione down to him, his arms wrapping about her.

 

 

Hermione turned her face to focus on George as she came. Fred roared his completion, but did not let Hermione go.

 

 

To choose—it was impossible. She was selfish, she knew, as her climax-addled brain began to shut down. What had started out as a favour, had turned into something much more monstrous. She had to be in the middle—she had to have them both. She knew that if she were not in the middle, Fred and George Weasley could not be the ones who would bring out the all-consuming love she felt when she was lodged between warm bodies. There would be no choosing of one or the either, because in the middle, Hermione Granger was in control.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 846 words
> 
> This drabble refers to my FW/HG/GW fic, ‘The Favor,’ but can also be read alone. You can read The Favor here: https://ianthe-waiting.livejournal.com/tag/favor


	3. #3 - End - Harry/Pansy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #3 End(s) – He could never convince her.

#3 - End

* * *

 

 

 

“You would never understand, Potter, so don’t try and play high and mighty saviour of the world!” she screamed at him, her voice echoing off the walls the abandoned Potions Classroom deep in the belly of Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

 

 

Harry Potter could not look at her, so angry, yet so guilty, that all he could do was clench his fits at his sides.

 

 

“But you promised, Pansy, you promised that you would help…you and the rest of your House,” Harry ground out, still able to feel the hot handprint on his cheek where Pansy had slapped him after he had startled her in the dark corridor outside the classroom.

 

 

“Don’t you understand, Potter? If we fought, our parents would not have hesitated to kill us out there. My own father…” Pansy trailed, her voice breaking.

 

 

Harry glanced up to watch her wipe tears from her pale cheeks. He wanted to be so angry with her, she had broken her promise to him. No one from the Slytherin House came to fight during the Last Battle—only Malfoy, and he had never been on Harry’s side.

 

 

“Do you realize that how many have died, Pansy?” Harry grumbled.

 

 

“And even more would have died if I had led everyone out!” Pansy cried, falling back into one of the worktables, her chin falling to her chest. “You could never understand…” she whispered.

 

 

Harry wanted to hate her, but he couldn’t.

 

 

Stepping toward her, he grasped her shoulders, staring into the raven crown of her hair, and the smudges of dust on her cheeks. Even though she had not been in the battle, she was still ragged, having to fight her way out of the Slytherin Dormitory when during the battle; part of the castle had collapsed. She smelled of dank, sweat, and faintly of a clean perfume of lilies and white tea.

 

 

Harry knew he looked or smelled no better, but he let his nostrils inhale the scent of perfume and forget for a moment that he had killed Voldemort only hours before. He embraced her, gently, leaning into her.

 

 

“Potter?” she gasped as she her thin body was consumed in his arms and chest, her voice muffled.

 

 

Harry held her, closing his eyes.

 

 

Pansy had always been the most horrible person to his friends, she had always worn a mask of derision and disgust, but Harry had seen through it all at some point during their schooldays. Pansy was far cleverer than most people believed, and she was far more caring of others than Harry could imagine. It had been that care that had brought them together.

 

 

He grasped her sharp chin and kissed her, just as he had so many times before in the darkness of corridors, in the hidden niches in the library, in the shadows of the Quidditch pitch, and so many other places.

 

 

Her hands went about his neck as she stood on the tips of her toes, weeping into their kiss.

 

 

She wept often whenever they had kissed, Harry remembered. Pansy Parkinson should not kiss Harry Potter she had said once. Kissing implied something deeper than what either of them felt, but still they kissed.

 

 

Harry placed Pansy on the top of the worktable, and pulling away, went down pushing up at her skirt to bury his face into the knicker-clad mound hidden beneath. He shivered at the sensation of her fingers in his hair. The tip of his nose brushed against the spot where her perfume seemed strongest, and he inhaled just as Pansy gasped.

 

 

“Potter…” she sighed as he pulled her knickers aside, and his tongue lashed out to taste the source of the wonderful perfume.

 

 

His tongue buried deep inside her, his nose against her nubbin, and he lapped. Harry Potter had been the only man inside Pansy Parkinson, but he had not taken her virginity. Of all the times they had desperately clashed together, it was never sex in its most literal sense—it was touching and tasting.

 

 

And this time was the end of it…

 

 

Harry’s mouth moved to suckle at Pansy’s clit, and she squealed as she came, her hands tangled in his hair, her juices pooling on the edge of the table, a pool which Harry licked up hungrily, relishing the taste.

 

 

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he stood, staring at Pansy with shimmering emerald eyes. She was not exactly pretty, not like Ginny, but she was alluring. And for a split-second, he considered taking her in his arms again, begging her to change her mind about everything.

 

 

Pansy smoothed her clothes and slid down from the table, the mask of derision back in place.

 

 

“Goodbye, Potter…” she whispered, beginning to move past him.

 

 

Harry grasped her arm before she got too far, whirling her around. His anger resurged.

 

 

“What was the point of you being in my life, Pansy?” Harry hissed.

 

 

Pansy blinked. “I don’t know, Potter, but if you’ll let me go, it will be the end of it.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 838 words


	4. #4 - Hours - Harry/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #4 – Hours, how long does love last?

#4 - Hours

* * *

 

 

 

 

Pink had never been complimentary to Hermione’s skin tone, and as her best friend, Harry Potter, ripped the bodice of the pink bridesmaid dress, she could not help but feel a bit of glee.

 

Pressed into the corner of Ron’s old bedroom at the Burrow, Hermione moaned as Harry’s mouth enveloped her left nipple, suckling at the pointed flesh while his calloused hand squeezed the right breast. She was tempted to thread her fingers into his dark hair, which he had somehow tamed, it being his wedding day, but did not want to muss the raven locks. His finely tailored dress robes clung to his toned physique like a second skin, and Hermione could feel a rush of hot dampness pooling in her knickers as she thought about what was under the expensive fabric.

 

Hours, two to be exact, until the ceremony in the garden—friends, family, surviving Order members, and a limited presence of the press waited for Harry Potter to utter his vows to Ginerva Weasley.

 

The how and why of Harry Potter’s hands now moving to hitch up Hermione’s skirts were simple.

 

“Just once more, Hermione, before I will never be able to do it again,” Harry had whispered, pinning Hermione into the corner after violently jerking her out of the hall and into Ron’s old room.

 

She could never deny Harry. Not when he first took her while they ran together, searching for Horcruxes, and not on his wedding day.

 

His lips smacked as he pulled his mouth away from her breast, ripping at her skirts so that he finally could look down to see her dark red satin knickers. Glancing up, he grinned at her, and she smirked in return, her hands reaching out to remove his glasses, tossing the battered spectacles to Ron’s bed. She wanted to see his eyes one last time—that endless emerald green.

 

With a violent motion, Hermione saw her nicest pair of knickers float down to the floor. She groaned.

 

Harry fidgeted with the front of his trousers as Hermione braced her arms on the walls, angled at either side of her. She was sure she looked wanton, her legs spread, her dress torn, her mouth open in anxious gasping, her painted mouth watering as Harry’s turgid cock sprang free from the confines of his trousers.

 

Hermione wanted Harry just as badly as he wanted her even if it were for the last time. They had found comfort in each other during that dark time running and hiding. Sex was just an expression for a love they shared, but not a love that would ever bind them together in anything other than the deepest friendship. Or, that was what Hermione forced herself to think.

 

Harry stepped toward her, grasping one leg and wrapping it about his waist, lifting her so that her bare back slid against the old papered wall. Her other leg came next, and she held her breath.

 

“Two hours from now, will you wish me well, Hermione, or will you be thinking of this?”

 

At his last word, he dropped her, pressing her against the wall as his cock penetrated her tight core. He covered her mouth with his hand just before she screamed at the sudden fullness lodged so impossibly deep in her body. Her stifled scream made his balls tighten.

 

The scream passed, and Hermione’s head fell forward to rest on Harry’s robe-clad shoulder.

 

“I love you, Hermione,” he whispered into her ear, styled curls tickling his lips as he spoke.

 

She stiffened, but did not raise her face as Harry began to thrust into her body. All she could do was clench at his shoulders to keep from falling, holding her weight with her legs around Harry’s waist, and using the force of the wall pressing into her back to keep her upright.

 

Harry held her tight, breathlessly kissing her neck, his teeth snagging her right ear lobe.

 

“I love you…” he panted, his cock arching up into her, bouncing her so that her eyes raised and Harry was confronted with Hermione’s tortured face, tears threatening to fall.

 

Two hours, and Hermione would be totally alone. She was the only one of the Trio who had not found the one she loved. Harry was leaving her, even as he fucked her against the wall of Ron’s old bedroom. This was to be the last time, but at Harry’s words of love, and his desperate kiss, she wondered how long it would be before Harry would come to her again. Months, days after the wedding?

 

Somehow, as Harry whimpered into their kiss, his thrusts erratic, hot seed filling her, hot seed spilling upon his robes and the remnants of her bridesmaid dress, she knew it could be only hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 795 words


	5. #5 - Days - Neville/Luna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #5 – Days. He had two days left to memorize her body.

#5 - Days

* * *

 

He had been clumsy, and she had been unreachable, and in two days it was going to end.

 

Neville Longbottom held her closer, trying to memorize the outline of her body against his, but she kept moving, kept thrusting her hips in a downward motion, kept throwing her blond hair over one shoulder then the other. He could not keep up.

 

Luna’s large blue eyes were hooded, staring down into his face, a faint smile visible at the corners of her lips. Neville’s large hand cupped her cheek as she gasped, as she moved.

 

He loved her, he was certain, but in two days she was leaving for Norway and did not know when she would return. His Luna…Loony Lovegood.

 

Neville grunted as her hips changed angle, and her inner walls clasped him. With a concerted motion, he rolled her on his bed in his quarters at Hogwarts, pressing her down into the mattress, pushing her knees high and down into her chest. Glancing into the wall mirror, he sighed. Neville Longbottom was not a tubby little boy any more, and he winced as his chiseled muscles in his stomach rippled.

 

“More.”

 

That was all she had to say as he grasped his hard cock and sank into her again. Luna was a waif-like woman, her ankles too skinny, her breasts too small, but he loved her. She was often off in her own mental world, but every once in a while, Luna let Neville inside her mind. Needless to say, Neville thought Luna’s world to be a strange, but beautiful place.

 

Neville’s world was just as beautiful especially when Luna was in it.

 

On his knees, he pounded into her, hard and deep, and with a twist of his hips, Luna’s usually passive face twisted, and her eyes shut. Her pale brow furrowed, her teeth clenched, and soon she was gone on a ride into blissful oblivion. Her face in that moment was the one Neville had wanted to see, the image he wanted to burn into his brain. Luna coming.

 

Not slowing, not stopping, Neville continued, pushing through the clenching inner walls, gritting his own teeth, his muscles tensing.

 

“Gods!” he growled, pulling from her body so that his white, sticky ejaculate flew to land on Luna’s thighs, her belly…

 

Neville fell back on the bed, sitting with his large hands on his thick thighs. He glanced in the mirror again, seeing how Luna’s chest moved to catch a breath, how the candlelight caught her pale eyes and hair, how his own wide chest worked to breathe, the dark hair over his pectoral muscles gleaming with sweat, how his handsome face was slack, his mouth open.

 

Two days…and she would be gone.

 

They both had their responsibilities, he to his job teaching, her to her research. Neville had always wondered if they could have worked together, gone somewhere together, or stayed somewhere together.

 

Luna Vanished his seed from her body, and tucking her wand behind her ear, crawled to him, her hands resting on his chest, so small over his heart. With a sigh, Neville turned his attentions away from the mirror to the woman who knelt before him.

 

“You know I’ll be back from time to time, and you can always visit…” she whispered, slowly the Luna-like attitude beginning to slip back in place. “I can show you what I have found.”

 

Neville forced a smile, running his thumb over her jaw to her bottom lip. He could not say that he knew in two days Luna Lovegood would soon forget he existed. That was how it was—no one thought about Neville Longbottom, and forgot about him after a few days…

 

“I’ll send you something…something interesting,” she said airily, her large blue eyes meeting his comparably plain brown ones.

 

Neville nodded, smiling as his thumb moved to trace her brow…memorizing.

 

Two days were all he had left to remember her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 654 words


	6. #6 - Weeks - Luna-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #6 – Weeks. In weeks, the world can change.

#6 - Weeks

* * *

 

 

Luna gazed at the twin faces staring up at her—blue eyes wide with wonder. Luna had read somewhere that babies often had blue eyes for a while after they are born, but she knew that the cerulean shade in Lorcan and Lysander’s eyes would not change.

 

 

They were small boys, and her arms were not heavy with their swaddled bodies. It was strange to Luna that her sons were so small even after a few weeks of breathing air. They were very aware and attentive to everything, to every sound, to every light. Even Rolf had commented on how oddly aware the boys were…

 

 

Luna began rocking in her chair in the nursery, having fed both boys, changed them, and wrapped them in soft blankets Molly Weasley had knitted for the twins. Three weeks ago, Luna had been thick with the boys, her back aching, her feet swollen. Three weeks ago, Luna had been scared as well. Would she be a good mother? Would she be able to care for the boys while Rolf was in the field?

 

 

Luna Scamander was rarely afraid.

 

 

The months during her pregnancy she had been afraid, but not until a week before Lorcan and Lysander were born was she truly mortified.

 

 

Her mother had died a terrible death before her very eyes, would she also experience such a fate?

 

 

Lysander yawned and Luna smiled.

 

 

The week before the birth of her sons, Luna began preparing for eventualities, unbeknownst to Rolf. She wrote a detailed set of instructions for the Potters, the godparents of her boys, in case she and Rolf were somehow unable to raise their sons. She left her desire that the boys should be sent to Hogwarts when they were old enough, she desired that both boys be taught defence if the school’s curriculum were lacking. Lorcan and Lysander had no grandparents, Rolf’s parents having disappeared off the coast of Greenland many years ago in search of an arctic breed of merpeople, and Xenophilius having died after the War.

 

 

It had taken her several days to detail the instructions, contact Gringotts to add the boy’s names to the family accounts, etc. And within a week of her preparations, she went into labour.

 

 

Luna had never been so frightened. The pain was negligible compared to her fear. What if the boys were to become ill? What if Rolf was lost in the wilderness, leaving her alone? What if she died in childbirth?

 

 

Weeks passed, and Luna still felt fear, a fear that narrowed her world and her thoughts to the welfare of her sons. Lorcan was sleeping, but Lysander still stared up at her hair and the wand tucked behind her left ear.

 

 

She cooed to them a song she remembered her mother singing, and soon both boys were asleep. Luna did not stop rocking, however, the runner of the chair made a soft clicking noise over the wooden floor of the nursery that soothed her as much as the twins.

 

 

Luna wanted to tell her sons about the world, instill bravery, instill confidence—all of which Luna felt she lacked.

 

 

Perhaps when the boys were bigger, perhaps when Rolf finished his research and was home in two weeks, Luna would feel more at ease with her new role. A matter of weeks changed everything, validating her reality, and making her realise that her world had a new colour, a new light.

 

 

Laying the boys in their cribs, she stared down at them, their tiny faces, tiny hands and fingers. In weeks, they would be bigger; in years they would have their own thoughts and ideas. Luna smiled as her eyes unfocused slightly, blurring their little forms. She fought back her fear, for it had lessened in the weeks since her sons had been in her arms.

 

 

The world was more real with children to love.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 644 words


	7. #7 - Months - Harry/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #7 – Months. It had been five months to the day.

#7 - Months

* * *

 

 

 

“What are you doing here?” she growled, her eyes not looking at him, but to the street outside her open door.

 

Muggles…Muggles walking their dogs, a woman pushing a pram, a middle-aged man jogging…

 

With a mighty wrench, Hermione Granger pulled Harry Potter inside the entryway of her upscale townhouse in London, shutting the door slowly, her eyes still scanning the street. It was two in the afternoon, on a Sunday in mid-October. Five months to the day Harry Potter married Ginny Weasley.

 

Whirling back to face her old friend, Hermione opened her mouth to scold Harry for coming to her house, by the front entrance, in broad daylight. However, before she could speak, Harry had flown to her, pushing her back against the front door rattling the bolt and locks, his mouth on hers, his hands tearing away her blouse and ripping at the front of her denims.

 

Hermione groaned as she knocked away his glasses, pushing back his leather jacket to jerk at his tee shirt so that her hands could touch his taut belly and chest.

 

Harry’s hands finally opened her pants, sliding them down her thighs, his left hand dipping past the waistband of her knickers and tangling in her curls.

 

She whimpered at the sensation of his cool fingers slipping at an angle into her passage, and as delightful as she felt, Hermione pushed Harry away roughly, sending him stumbling into the living room.

 

Hermione advanced, slipping out of her clothes, moving past Harry, grabbing his belt and pulling him into the room—only to throw him across the couch before the fireplace, his eyes wide, his mouth agape. Summoning her wand with a silent incantation from its place on the mantle, she cast an intricate disrobing Charm so Harry lay nude on the couch, his arousal pointing upward lewdly, a grin beginning to soften his face.

 

“Five months to the day,” she whispered, dropping her wand on the coffee table as she circled the couch, just as nude as Harry.

 

“It would have been sooner…” he began, but ended with a grunt as Hermione straddled his hips, rubbing her velvety wet centre over the underside of his cock.

 

“But you…” she started, but trailed, wanting to say that he had not forgotten about her after all. After the wedding, it seemed that the Trio went their separate ways, Ron busy with his own family, Harry trying to keep Ginny from suspecting that the reason he was so flustered during the wedding was because he could not stop staring at Hermione and her magically repaired dress during the ceremony.

 

Harry sighed, grasping her arms, pulling her down to him kiss her, relishing the feel of her heavy breasts against his chest. Grasping her hips, he lifted her, the tip of his cock brushing along her core, causing her to gasp into their kiss.

 

Hermione grinned against his lips as finally she let him slip inside. Harry hissed at the slow motion, the slow death by drowning inside the woman above him. He did love her, although he knew that they would never be able to live together. With Ginny there was safety, but with Hermione…

 

“Merlin…” he grunted as she swiveled her hips, rising up above him to cup her breasts in her hands. Harry’s eyes were fixed upon her, the sun streaming in through the front windows, backlighting her body so that she glowed golden, her hair, her skin, her eyes…

 

He wondered if he had made a fatal mistake in marrying Ginny.

 

Hermione, on the other hand, was elated that Harry was against her, inside her. After five months, she had missed his touch. Even though he had come to her flat so unexpectedly, unannounced, she was glad.

 

His hands grasped her hips as she moved faster, his emerald eyes shutting and his mouth slack with a moan. Her name was on his lips, and that was all that mattered. Her name…

 

Harry’s eyes opened, thrusting upward to meet her, his fingers moving to pinch her clit. She whimpered, her belly tightening, her head thrown back. His right hand reached for her face, but found her neck instead. Hermione gasped as he pulled her forward and down, hand about her throat.

 

“Mine…” he gritted out, his hips moving, skin slapping, sac tightening.

 

Hermione gasped, eyes wide and unseeing.

 

“My own…” he gasped as he felt her orgasm ripple through her body.

 

His hand released her throat, but she did not complain about his sudden rough treatment as she came with a squeal, grasping what she could of him to keep herself from blasting off into the vastness of oblivion. His hands moved to her hips, slamming her body down, impaling her roughly until his own body stiffened. He held his breath, holding Hermione’s hips still before thrusting quickly twice more, and filling her with his seed and the sound of his roar.

 

Every bit of Hermione was inundated with Harry Potter. Her body, her mind knew nothing but him. She had not realized how badly she had needed him after so many months. She could not think of when so much time had gone by without seeing him, and as he held her tight, kissing her face, she wondered how long he was going to stay…and how long it would be before he would want her again.

 

Months? Years?

 

Hermione smiled into his shoulder, feeling his seed hot in her body, and the slow softening of his organ inside her passage. Their coupling had been quick, but it had soothed the itch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 929 words


	8. #8 - Years - Marcus/Angelina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #8 – Years. He would wait for years, if he had to…

#8 - Years

* * *

 

 

 

He loved the way the air would send her dark hair flying behind her like a ebony flag. He loved the way her long legs would fall over the handle of her Cleansweep. Her skin was perfect, her dark eyes bottomless. When she threw the Quaffle, she seemed like one of those statues from ancient times, a warrior queen.

 

Angelina Johnson had been his dream, and his pain.

 

Because of her, he got a Beater bat to the face which caused him to look like some troll spawn for the remainder of his years at Hogwarts. It was not bad enough that in his second year he had to stay at St. Mungo’s enduring a particularly nasty case of dragon pox having to repeat a year.

 

Most people, during his Hogwarts years, thought Marcus Flint was a mental deficient, whose only talent was Quidditch. Those ‘most people’ included even his Angelina Johnson.

 

By no means was Marcus a nice man. He was large, ugly, and intimidating, but when he made Detective Inspector, people were forced to respect him. Maybe Marcus Flint was not as stupid as most believed. He was well on his way to Detective Chief Inspector when the day came that he was called to assist DCI Malfoy in investigating the attempted murder of George Weasley.

 

Marcus remembered reading the notice of Angelina Johnson’s marriage to George Weasley in the Prophet years before, and then the notice of the birth of their first child Fred, then the second, Roxanne. Each time, Marcus drowned himself deep in a bottle of whiskey at the Leaky Cauldron. He had seen her in Diagon Alley, followed her to Number 93, and watched her interact with her husband through the plate glass of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. She seemed so happy, smiling, laughing as the Weasley held her tight, and pressed kisses into her throat and cheeks.

 

Marcus remembered seeing Angelina’s two children, so small, so beautiful…

 

Their eyes should have been dark like hers, like Marcus’, and not a startlingly shade of blue-green set into caramel skinned cherub faces…

 

“Flint?”

 

She was sitting in the corridor of St. Mungo’s, blood staining her white blouse, her husband’s blood. Her hands were wringing upon her lap, and her dark eyes were shimmering with tears.

 

Marcus moved toward her, sitting in the chair next to her, facing the door to the Emergency ward where Healers, and DCI Malfoy were trying to save her husband’s life.

 

“I don’t know what to do…” she sobbed.

 

Marcus’ dark eyes widened as Angelina’s arms snaked about his thick neck, and she pressed her weeping face into the shoulder of his cloak. Marcus’ large hands clenched, unsure whether it would be appropriate to hold the woman.

 

She wore her hair differently, plaited into tiny, intricate, beautiful braids from her scalp. She had aged very little since they had played against each other at Hogwarts. She was perfect, her skin, her eyes, her lips, the shape of her ears...

 

Marcus had never been so close to her before that moment, and he was drowning in her perfume, a light scent that seemed to scream her name in his brain.

 

Angelina…Angelina…

 

“What am I going to do about the kids?” she cried, her voice muffled against his shoulder. “What about the shop?”

 

Throwing propriety aside, Marcus let his thick arms wrap about her quivering frame, finding her to be so small against him. He held her as she cried, and the tension emanating from Emergency ward heightened. Marcus knew Weasley was not going to make it, none of Potter’s victims made it—no, all but one…

 

“It will be alright, Johnson…you have your family…you have…” he trailed, nearly saying ‘me.’

 

In most ways, it was an empty reassurance, but Angelina seemed to calm. Pulling back to look into his face, she smiled sadly.

 

“No one has called me ‘Johnson’ for years, Flint.”

 

Marcus’ face moved, and he smiled, making sure she did not see his mangled teeth.

 

“You’ll always be ‘Johnson’ to me…” he whispered.

 

Angelina smiled again, even as tears trickled down her smooth cheeks. Pressing her face into his shoulder again, Marcus held her tighter. He knew that within moments he would lose her again.

 

Weasley was dead.

 

He would wait for her to grieve, to settle her life, and children into the fact that they had no husband or father, and then, even if it took years, he would ask her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 742 words
> 
> This drabble ties in to The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man which can be read on this archive.


	9. #9 - Sea - Ginny-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #9 – Sea. Would the sea take her soul?

#9 - Sea

* * *

 

 

 

She slipped the rocks into her pockets, heavy white stones that pulled her skirts down over her bare feet. The sea called to her in crashing waves against the cliffs down the pebbled beach.

 

She had never liked the sea, it frightened her. But she continued slipping rocks into her pockets all the same. The surf was icy, the water black with only bits of white as the waves broke toward the shore. The sky was grey and stormy, and she wondered as she dropped more rocks into her pockets, why anyone loved such a drab, colourless sea.

 

Her clothes were heavy, her skirts weighed down with stones, the pockets in her cardigan stretched with the rocks in her pockets. Would it be enough? Maybe a few more would do to pull her straight down to the bottom of the sea.

 

They would wonder why she had done this, drown herself in the sea, but if they knew her well, they would not be surprised.

 

Ginny Weasley, no, Ginny Potter had hidden her true self under an exterior of unflinching loyalty to her husband and her children. Of course, she loved them all, but it was a shallow love. She knew that there was something wrong with her, something that had been wrong for years.

 

Ginny had started to hear his voice again in her mind, the voice that had haunted her since her First Year. The voice that had been consigned to her nightmares had come into her waking mind once again, his words insistent. Kill Harry… Kill the children… Kill her friends, her family… Tom Riddle’s voice was angry, demanding, and loud in her head.

 

Hermione had taken her to see a Muggle doctor a year after Ginny was married, and Ginny took the pills, only stopping when she was pregnant, and quickly taking the little yellow and grey pills up again when she was not. The pills kept his voice away at first.

 

The sea deafened her, and his voice, and for that, Ginny liked the sea only for that.

 

The rocks scrapped together in her pockets as she stepped into the surf, foam tickling her ankles.

 

Faintly, she could hear his voice, angry that she had not done what had told her to do, angry that she was moving against his will.

 

Three weeks before, she could take no more of his voice, and declared she was going to Bempton to visit with Percy who had taken refuge there to write a novel—about what, Ginny did not want to venture a guess. Percy had not minded the company, living alone in a cottage on the cliffs. Below the cliffs, there was only one narrow beach when the tide was low, and that was where Ginny would go.

 

Chalky stones filled both pockets in her skirts and in her cardigan—heavy stones that would hold her down.

 

The sea frightened her, but she knew that the tide was already beginning to come in, higher than before, and it would take her whether she wanted it or not.

 

If she could save herself by hurting her family, she knew she would do anything. The voice was beginning far too insistent, and she found herself doing things that she would not normally do. Ginny was afraid she would hurt the children, and if she did, it would be the end of her.

 

The sea froze her skin as she stood waist deep in the water. She had been too scared for too long, and the voice in her head was screaming…

 

Let the sea take her, she thought. Closing her eyes she continued, salt water splashing against her face. Into the cold dark she walked, the stones weighing her down.

 

The sea had taken many souls, and Ginny wondered as she inhaled the briny water, if it would take hers as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 644 words


	10. #10 - Shore - Ron/Pansy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #10 – Shore. The pebbles dug into her knees.

 #10 - Shore

* * *

 

Blood supremacy meant only a bit to Pansy Parkinson, but she could never stand someone like Hermione Granger, who had no lineage, to out shine her. There was a hierarchy—Purebloods wed Purebloods. And as it was, Pansy Parkinson was urged to find a suitable husband even during her schooldays. Of course, she had to find a mate who was not closely related, and preferably someone who had no blood ties to her own family. That was why she hated Hermione Granger, because Ronald Weasley was enamoured with her.

 

Schooldays ended, but still Pansy had not yet obtained what she desired. All through school she had watched him, even mocked him along side her Slytherin classmates, but she watched him grow from a gangling boy into a strapping man of considerable height and strength. Ron Weasley was a healthy specimen of man.

 

She stalked him like a predator, even after the Last Battle, even after he began living with Potter. She was certain that he suspected her interest.

 

On the shore of the Black Lake, she caught him, her ginger haired prey.

 

It seemed almost too easy to kiss him, almost too easy to pull him down to the rocky shore, and straddle his hips…

 

“Parkinson…” was all he said, his impossibly blue eyes piercing her own, only resignation conveyed by those orbs.

 

Pansy did not care if he did not fight back. She was going to mark him, claim him, just as her mother had taught her to do with a potential mate or husband. Ancient family tradition taught Pansy, and most other Pureblooded families, that if a mate was not willing to marry the woman owned the right of the man if she was pregnant with his heir. It was a sexist, antiquated notion, but Ronald Weasley would not be hers any other way.

 

When she tore open his pants, kissing along the red trail of hair, she held in her surprise that Ron Weasley was aroused. Glancing up at him, she frowned. Taking a chance, she kissed him again, keeping her eyes open to watch his close…

 

Planting her knees into the shore, she winced as a particularly sharp piece of stone dug into her knee through her skirt. Ron Weasley’s face moved and she saw concern mixed with the freckles, and the crimson fringes blown in the wind of the Black Lake.

 

When she finally took him, riding his thick cock, she wondered why he was holding her hips, why he was gritting his teeth to stifle a groan, why, when her rhythm broke, he began surging up into her womb. She wondered if he would hate her for assaulting him on the rocky shore of the Black Lake with cold water lapping at the stones feet away. Would her advances be considered criminal, perhaps?

 

Throwing her head back, she moaned, her long, inky hair catching the wind, and flying upon the breeze. Ron Weasley finally let his groan erupt from his chest, his hands moving to grasp her breasts through the bodice of her dress.

 

Did he like her, at the very least? She had fancied herself in love with him for years, but deep down she knew he had become an obsession.

 

Even if he would not marry her, even if he turned out to be Potter’s lover, even if he cursed her name, she would hold his seed deep inside her womb, whether she became pregnant or not, she would have a piece of him.

 

Oh, she had timed herself, and her attack to be the day she was most fertile, and she clasped her knees into his sides, and her hands into his jumper to ensure that when he came he would not pull away. Pansy needed him to live on…

 

Her breaths came as gasps as she could feel her consciousness, and her body slip over that metaphoric edge, and everything, the clouds, the mountains, the lake, and the shore became suddenly very clear.

 

“Ron!” she choked, falling forward even as he grunted, his cock pushing up into her clenching passage.

 

From where her head rested upon his chest, listening to the wild tattoo of his heart, she knew that he wanted her enough to finish, to fuck her with sharp pebbles of the shore digging into his back. His voice sounded in animalistic grunts, and gentle whimpers, his large hands bruising her hips as finally she could feel the pressure release and seed fill her.

 

He filled her completely, and she forced her muscles to hold what he had given her.

 

Pansy eventually pulled away, standing on wobbly legs, smoothing down her long black skirts over her slender, ivory legs. Her sharp eyes stared down at Ron Weasley, critically. Even as he lay on the shore, spent cock resting against his lower belly, his chest heaving, his mouth open in a pant, his glazed eyes staring back at her—he was handsome.

 

“I will be seeing you soon,” she said with an air of feigned anger, and drawing her wand from the sleeve of her black dress, she Apparated from the lonely shore, leaving behind the man she would marry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 860 words


	11. #11- Faith - Remus-Severus (Friendship)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #11 – Faith. Remus had faith, while Severus did not.

#11 - Faith

* * *

 

 

 

He could not understand how Severus could always manage to remember to appear just on time.  He knew that there plans in place, he knew that Severus was strained with all the things he had to do, but always, just before sunset on the night of the full moon, Severus would appear with the last monthly, freshly brewed dose of Wolfsbane.  He always appeared for the last monthly dose in person…

 

“Severus,” Remus Lupin said in a type of greeting as the black clad gentleman sat down across from Remus in the scullery of Grimmauld Place, sliding a warm phial of potion across the rough wood plank of the table.

 

“Remus,” Severus hissed, his black eyes catching the lamplight and glimmering darkly.

 

Remus took the phial, and uncorking it, downed the foul concoction, barely making a face as he swallowed.

 

Usually, Severus only stayed long enough to see that Remus drank his potions, however, as the werewolf placed the empty phial on the table, meeting his old schoolmate’s eyes, Remus frowned.

 

“What is it?” Remus asked quietly.

 

Severus only stared, his pallid face impassive, his thin lips pressed tight.  Remus rested his elbows on the plank table and leaned forward slightly.

 

As if cued, Severus spoke, his deep voice a mere whisper.

 

“I’ve been charged to do something, Remus…something I cannot speak of, but something that will make it impossible to continue brewing Wolfsbane for you.”

 

There was a trace of anxiety in Severus’ voice, as well as regret.  It puzzled Remus.

 

Remus had been journeying all over Britain and the continent to rally support from his own, with little luck.  Even with his own kind, he was still an outsider.  However, the perils and disappointments Remus faced was nothing compared to those the man sitting across the table endured at that moment.

 

Remus was not particularly fond of Severus Snape, but he respected the man, no matter what was said or done during their schooldays, Severus Snape was a far stronger, far more powerful than any of the Marauders.

 

“I can ask Miss Granger, perhaps.”

 

Severus frowned.  “She is proficient, but…” he trailed.

 

Remus sighed, beginning to feel the slight change in his blood already, despite being indoors.  He would slip down into the cellar in over an hour…

 

“You will be leaving us…the Order?”

 

Severus’ eyes flashed.

 

Remus rubbed a hand over his face.  Remus had sensed a change was upon the Order for some time—secret plans, Dumbledore’s lack of guidance for the Order for the past year, and Harry’s behaviour when asked about Dumbledore’s blackened hand—a change was upon the wind.

 

“You would be the only one to miss me, Remus, and that is only because of the Wolfsbane,” Severus snarled.

 

Remus sighed.  He was not fond of Severus, but respected him, but also wished Severus was not so acerbic and so morbid.  Of course, a nice, pleasant Severus Snape would most likely be some terrible thing to behold, in Remus’ mind.

 

“That aside, Severus…I have faith in you,” Remus said softly, already feeling his bones ache in anticipation of transformation.  “Whatever you have been charged to do…it must be important.  I do not wish you harm.”

 

“Faith?” Severus spat, and then averted his eyes, his jaw clenching.  “You wait, Remus, you just wait and see how strong your faith is,” Severus muttered through clenched, crooked teeth.

 

“The fact that you have mentioned whatever it is you must do to me, leads me to have faith, Severus.  If I do not have faith…I don’t think I would be able to do what _I_ have been charged to do.”

 

Severus relaxed, slumping his shoulders in what almost appeared to be defeat in Remus’ eyes.

 

“Faith is for the weak, and weak-minded.”

 

Remus frowned.  “And those who have no faith are arrogant and will ultimately fall due to their hubris.”

 

Severus smirked.  “It really depends on one’s point of view doesn’t it?”

 

Remus said nothing.

 

“Of your friends, you were the most intelligent…and from my point of view, that is the only reason why you are still alive.  The beast in you represents the irrational passion in you, the man before me now is made of logic…I only hope that your _faith_ is not a blind faith, Remus…”

 

Remus stiffened.  He knew what Severus was implying, faith in Dumbledore; it was a blind faith for so many in the Order.  But not for Remus.

 

With his eyes, which were beginning to turn with the late hour, he could see deep into Severus Snape.  Inside the dark man were dark plans, and darker deeds yet to be done.

 

“I will still hold my faith in you Severus.  Though you have none, no faith…whatever it is that you have been charged to do…I will have faith enough for both of us that this war _will_ come to an end.”

 

Severus breathed a laugh.

 

“And _I_ have faith that neither of us will live to see the end.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 828 words


	12. #12 - Trust - Albus-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #12 – Trust. Trust is only for those who prove themselves worthy.

#12 - Trust

* * *

 

 

Albus’ last words to Severus Snape were written thus:

 

 

 

 

_When your heart breaks, a funny thing happens.  You suddenly trust no one.  That was how I felt after Ariana was killed._

_I had loved him so profoundly that when I realized my folly, I saw everything, myself and the world, in shadows.  I trusted no one with my heart, not even myself.  As he had been incapable of love, I tried to make myself the same._

_I failed._

_I then supposed that if one was incapable of love, they must be born that way.  Those capable of love simply cannot switch off that ability when they have suffered.  It was then I learned, years after he fled, that I was the better man, the stronger man because I could love.  All the same, the lesson had been learned.  Trust can only be given to those who prove themselves worthy.  This proof is discerned by trials, tests I pose to those who I would like to trust, to learn whether they are worthy of that trust._

_Through the years after he left me, I knew that it would be my duty to stop him eventually.  I began to question what it had been that had led me to fall so hard for him._

_Charisma.  It had been charisma._

_He had been two years younger than me, but he shone like the brightest star in the sky, like the brightest phoenix fire.  He was beautiful, he was brilliant, and he was charismatic._

_I bought into his delusion—I created my own delusions.  I believed for approximately eight months that he loved me, that together, side-by-side, we would change the world and save everyone from themselves.  Two handsome princes, two sages, we would lead the world into a light so bright, into a world so perfect that we would live together like gods._

_I loved him; he tricked me into loving him.  His touches, his kisses, his laughter, it was bait into a trap he had constructed so neatly to siphon information from me about the Hallows._

_I wondered for a long time if he had ever really needed me after all._

_My anger, my mistrust, as well as my love, which had lain dormant for forty-five years, had been what saved me in the end, what helped me defeat him.  Even as he begged for death as I sealed him into the prison he had made for so many other innocents, I loved him.  I kissed his brow, and sealed him away for a lifetime._

_“This is for the ‘greater good,’ Gellert,” I whispered, as his voice screamed at me, begging for mercy.  My words had not been lost on him._

_The ‘Greater Good.’  Just seeing those words above the prison doors made my heart break again.  It had been ‘our’ words, ‘our’ ideal._

_I could never trust anyone with those ideals again._

_In Tom Riddle, I saw that same charisma Gellert had, and it repulsed me.  I saw it again in the students I taught, the professors around me, and I knew that I could not trust anyone._

_That is, until the day you stood before me, reporting in as my new Potions Master._

_Whatever charismatic notions you had were either buried so deep that I could not sense it, or simply, you had none.  You had always been an enigma, and for that, and your discretion, I knew I could trust you implicitly.  You reminded me of myself not long after Gellert left me—cold, calculating, keen, and aggressive._

_If I had ever had a son, you would have been it, Severus.  I do not pity your past pains, but I view them as what has made you what you are now, a warrior of sorts.  I wonder, have I ever seen your true face?  I do trust you, no matter what face you wear._

_My trust in you is why you must do what must be done.  You must not waver, you must not fear.  I can trust you to do what you must to ensure that there is a future for every one of those young souls who have placed **their** trust in us._

_Be well, Severus, my son.  You shall right so many of the wrongs.  I have trust in that._

_‘ab imo pectore’_

_Albus Percival Brian Wulfic Dumbledore_

_June 1, 1997_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 725 words


	13. #13 - Respect - Neville/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #13 – Respect. Was her respect worth the trouble?

#13 - Respect

 

 

 

Neville felt a small itch of guilt in the back of his mind, but ignored it.  He had not meant to slam Hermione into the wall so hard, but was pleased that she had finally shut her mouth.  To further insure that she did not speak, he kissed her, occupying the mouth that had been yelling at him.

 

Neville knew that if his grandmother were still alive that she would certainly have something to say about how to treat a woman, and Neville would have agreed with old Augusta Longbottom.  Neville did not like to hurt people.  However, when it really came down to it, Neville, as an adult, did not hesitate to use force when necessary.

 

Hermione had been, and was still, in fact, angry.  Neville thought Hermione’s anger over the fact that one of his Devil’s Snare pots in the garden hothouse nearly killing Crookshanks was a bit over blown.  Neville had saved the half-Kneazle, and as far as he knew, the creature was unharmed.  Neville had endured approximately one hour of Hermione’s hysterics.  She had never cared before then that Neville had the plant in the hothouse, and Crookshanks had always swatted at the plant before then without being caught in the plant’s tendrils.

 

Finally, however, the incessant noise of Hermione’s voice listing all the logical reasons why Neville should not have the plant, his lack of reason when it came to their safety, etc, got too far out of control as Hermione began attacking his character.  He realised that she was angry; he realised that she was growing angrier because he had been ignoring her, and he realised that Hermione rarely got angry, but when she did, bile came out of her mouth as if she had been storing it up for an occasion to be angry.

 

“You are as weak and a coward!  You are as incompetent as you were when…” had been the last words out of her mouth. 

 

Both Hermione and Neville knew her words were in no way true, but all the same, Neville reacted by showing Hermione just how ‘weak,’ how ‘incompetent,’ and how big a ‘coward’ he truly was…

 

He threw her against the parlour wall, and kissed her. 

 

Neville Longbottom was no longer a tubby child, and he was not a gangling teenager.  He was a man of bone and muscle, confident, strong, handsome, and wickedly dangerous with a wand.  Many a Death Eater had fallen before him and the few that had survived feared him—every bit Frank and Alice Longbottom’s son.  An Auror’s son.  His Gran had been proud the day she died.

 

Hermione tried to fight against him, pounding her small fists upon his wide chest.  It would have hurt any other man, but Neville felt nothing, a large hand about her throat, the other tearing away her blouse and skirt.  He pinned her to the wall with his body, his tee shirt, and jeans dusty from working in the soil, his skin sweaty from the heat of the summer day.  His walnut brown hair fell into his eyes as he devoured her mouth, swallowing her screams and whines.

 

Soon, however, with his denim-clad knee between her legs, the threads digging into her core where he had ripped her knickers away, she ceased to fight him.  Hermione was so small compared to him.  His hand that held her throat, forcing her head back, slipped between their bodies.  Neville had yet to pull his mouth away from hers. 

 

Unzipping his denims, Neville pressed her tighter against the wall, sliding her back up the wallpaper to ready her for what he was about to do.

 

No longer fighting him, Hermione helped by wrapping her bare legs about Neville’s waist, her hands grasping his shoulders. 

 

Neville broke the kiss, his face flushed as the tip of his organ slipped inside Hermione.  Holding her hips, he stepped in closer to the wall, and with a jerk of his pelvis, he was inside.  She had hissed, her amber eyes flashing, but Neville did not stop, and began thrusting into her body, causing her head to fall sharply back into the wall.

 

The guilt he had felt was gone, and his own anger, his own lust, filled his thoughts.

 

The sight of her, the front of her blouse and bra ripped, her skirt and knickers near his feet, the manner in which her eyes rolled back into her skull, and the sound of her voice, when it was not yelling at him was what he wanted.

 

Neville Longbottom demanded respect from everyone he laid his eyes upon, and usually he got that respect.  It was only Hermione Granger who did not see him as a man to respect, or that was what Neville believed.  To her, he was just a man, a man she loved from time to time, not even a boyfriend, but a friend she slept with on occasion.  If they had not been flat mates, he would not have thought about her all after the War.  It had been she who instigated a relationship of sorts; he had been too busy trying to attain a Master’s level in Herbology.  It had been Hermione who would slip into his room at night and crawl into bed next to him.  It had been Hermione who did not respect him.

 

From First Year, to that very moment, Neville needed her respect.

 

His mouth moved over her throat, her jaw, to take her mouth again.  The thrusting and falling of her hips down onto his stiff cock forced Neville deep into her body.  He groaned against her lips, his arms beginning to ache from holding her, his thighs and buttocks burning as the muscles stained.

 

His anger fueled him, but it also pushed his senses faster, further.

 

“Neville!” Hermione wailed as her body convulsed against him.

 

Neville grinned malevolently into Hermione’s throat before his face dissolved and he was lost.

 

Things had to change.  Neville would have to make up his mind.   Was he ready to love Hermione Granger?  Was demanding her respect worth his time?

 

As they slid to the parlour floor, Hermione laying upon his tanned and toned body, his clothing disheveled, the fly of his jeans open obscenely, his semi-erect cock leaking onto his pants, Neville wondered if his self-respect would allow him to love her—her, who was so headstrong, yet so vulnerable in his arms.  The fight was gone from her, and she clung to him so desperately.

 

Perhaps Hermione was demanding his respect as well.  The question was, to Neville, did he really want her respect after all?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,101 words


	14. #14 - Joy - Draco/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #14 – Joy. This was ‘joy’ to her.

#14 - Joy

* * *

 

 

 

In hindsight, Hermione wondered:  was joy only possible after experiencing such defeat or pain?  On days such as these, sitting in the grass over the cliffs of a deep blue sea, Hermione knew that she was edging close to joy.

 

Her head rested in his lap, his pale fingers tangling in her caramel waves, leaning over her, his silver eyes gazing into her own.

 

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice barely audible over the sound of the waves crashing into the white cliffs below.

 

Hermione sighed, rolling to lie on her back, gazing up into her lover’s face.

 

“Joy.”

 

He laughed.  “Such an abstract thing?”

 

She nodded, rolling the back of her head against his thighs. 

 

They had decided to take in the sea air, not worried about anyone bothering them, Muggles seeing them. 

 

“It is merely just a great elation one feels when they believe they are happy?”

 

He rolled his eyes.  “I thought we were going to leave the ‘deep thoughts’ today and enjoy the sea air?”

 

“That is like telling me not to breathe,” she countered.

 

He chuckled.  “True.  And I, for one, want you to breathe.”

 

Hermione pursed her lips.  “Well, that _is_ nice to know.”

 

His fingers dug deeper into her hair, pulling playfully.  She could not help but smile, ‘joy’ was near.

 

“I will apologise again for accidentally hexing you last week, but you should know better than to sneak up on me when I’m sleeping.”

 

Hermione snorted.  “And I should have dodged.”

 

“So true.”

 

They fell silent again, Hermione twisting her face toward the sea again, his fingers tracing circles in her hair and against her scalp.  Only two weeks before, they had been fighting for their lives.  Only two weeks before, Hermione had nearly lost the man she loved.

 

That was why she felt joy, a simply happiness of being able to see near the sea with him.  Joy in knowing that they would never be apart again.

 

She shifted her left hand upon her hip, raising it to her eyes.  The glimmer of a platinum band about her ring finger dazzled her eyes.  Her eyes then moved to his hand resting on her belly, and the matching platinum glimmer on his finger.

 

This was joy, she thought.

 

Life, death, pain, loss—all of it to be countered by such wonderful things like love, happiness, marriage, and joy.

 

“Is it too naive to think that everything, from this point on, will be all right?” she whispered in question.

 

“It is naive, Hermione, but still worth believing in,” he whispered back, his voice nearly lost on the sea’s wind.

 

Hermione sighed, turning her head back to look up into his shadowed face.

 

“Us, together, for now on?”

 

He grinned, his grey eyes almost as brilliant as the wedding band on his finger.  “Us, together, for as long as you like, you silly woman.”

 

Joy, it caused her eyes to water.  Joy, it caused her chin to tremble.

 

“You know what they say about men who marry silly women, don’t you, Mr. Malfoy?” she managed.

 

“No?  What’s that?” he said, wiping away the tears in the corners of her eyes.

 

She grinned.  “They live happily ever after with hordes of silly children.”

 

Draco Malfoy howled in laughter.  “The Malfoy line needs more silliness and less inbreeding—“

 

This was joy to Hermione Granger Malfoy, teasing her husband in the bright sunlight of a day they had lived to see together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 579 words


	15. #15 - Sorrow - Ron/Pansy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #15 – Sorrow. Sorrow led to nothing, but love made it bearable.

#15 - Sorrow

* * *

 

 

Pansy had made her peace with the fact that she was dying, and she wondered why he couldn’t.  She wondered if he was so afraid of being alone.  Pansy knew that it was not just the fact that he was losing her.  All the same, she could not begrudge him his sorrow, most of the time.

 

When the Healers declared that nothing could be done to stop the slow progression and ultimate degradation of her mind, Pansy remembered taking a slow breath, and nodded her understanding.  He, her husband, Ronald Weasley, declared, in turn, that they were going to see a Muggle Healer.

 

The disease affected her magic, which, the Healers said, was seated in her brain.  Admittedly, Pansy could not understand everything the Healers told her about her own brain, and Ron, obviously, was less inclined to understand, but Pansy knew that she was dying, she could feel it.  How long she had to live was uncertain.  Her prognosis was not optimistic, and everyday, she felt herself slipping further and further away from her life.  It was as if pieces of her consciousness were being eroded away.

 

When the Muggle Healers told her that her disease was affecting her brain by way of producing seizures that resulted in her suddenly losing her concept of time, Pansy took the news well enough.  The so-called ‘fainting spells’ had not been ‘spells’ at all…

 

The Muggle Healers told her that her disease was far too advanced, and the tumor too deep, for any operation to repair it.

 

So, Pansy waited for death.

 

“You are only thirty-two years old, Pans, you are far too young for this,” Ron said to her all too often.

 

Pansy loved Ron.  Of course, many years ago, when they were in school together, she would have felt anything but love for Ronald Weasley.  But, he was Pureblooded, and her parents were content with that.   It was not just _that_ reason why Pansy had pursued him. 

 

They made love more often, now that they knew there was so little time.  Lovemaking tired her like it never had before.  Ron had to be so gentle with her, or so he thought.  Every time he thrust into her, he was gentle, holding himself back for fear of somehow damaging her.  Pansy wanted to scream at him, scream that he should take her like he used to, fuck her until she could die happy, and on the wave of orgasmic high.

 

“But I love you too much to ever hurt you,” he would whisper to her, his erection flagging inside her, tears of frustration and depthless sorrow in the corners of his azure eyes.

 

“You hurt me when you treat me like I’m going to die at any moment,” she growled, scratching his muscular chest with her red painted fingernails, irritated that he had stopped moving over her.

 

He chuckled; he always chuckled, despite the fact that she could see the vacant blackness inside him, present in preparation for the time when she was not longer under him, fucking him, loving him, near him…

 

“But you might die at _any_ moment, love.”

 

It was a lame attempt at sarcasm, but she smirked at any rate.  Her husband of ten years had never been gifted with sarcasm, but he was funny enough, and she loved him for it.

 

They had never managed to have children, which, if your last name was Weasley, was a mortal sin.  Pansy had even felt the pressure from her own family to have at least one child, but after ten years, it seemed as if the Fates were not going to allow a child to be born.  And then the cancer came…

 

It did not matter to Pansy.  However, she wished, for the sake of her husband, that they had a child.

 

Pansy rolled with Ron on their bed, annoyed that her husband had retreated inside himself, sorrow engulfing him, that she, in her still aroused state, was not getting what she wanted.  The cancer was not affecting her sex drive, just to her ability to stay conscious at times.  She had stopped taking the medicines and potions the Healers had given her, she was in little pain, but it was getting worse—headaches.  It had been the potions that made her feel ill, and she wondered:  if the potions were meant to help her, why did she felt so horrible taking them…

 

Straddling her husband, she looked down at him, his long ginger hair splayed upon the pillows.  He was incredibly handsome, but as she gazed at him, he looked incredibly pathetic.  So, Pansy did something she had done only a few times during their marriage.  She slapped him.

 

“Snap out of it, Ron, I’m not dead yet…” she growled.

 

She knew she could feel herself dying, but she wanted to feel loved, not pitied, especially not pitied by her husband.

 

Ron glared at her, just like he used to early in their marriage, angry, but aroused.  The first time they had made love, it had been angry, feral, real and alive.

 

“Make love to me…like you love me,” she whispered.

 

Ron studied her face, her lank black hair, the rings under her eyes, the way her bones seem to point from her body at sharp angles, and he saw the woman he married in those deep well-like eyes.  In those depthless eyes, there was still a spark of life.  In his sorrow, Ron had nearly forgotten that resignation did not mean she was willing herself to die, she was just no longer afraid.

 

He surged up, his thick sinewy arms wrapping about her, his lips tasting her throat, her small breasts.  She smelled like life barely clinging to a frame of skin and bones.  In that intoxicating smell, he saw her as he remembered her—beautiful. 

 

Pansy’s fingers buried into his hair, and pulsing through him as his cock hardened against her belly, was no longer just sorrow, but love.

 

Whatever time they had left, whatever pain would wrack her body, Pansy did not want her husband, her love, to feel sorrow.  Impaling herself upon him, Pansy sighed.  Sorrow led to nothing, and love, only love, would make her passing bearable, and not only for Ron, but for herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,043 words


	16. #16 - Purple - Blaise/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt #16 – Purple, only royalty could wear purple.

#16 - Purple

* * *

 

 

She ran the ball of her right foot along his bare side, from under his arm, down his ribs to his hip.  Licking her lips, she smiled at him as he watched her through his long lashes.  Blaise shifted his head against the arm of the settee.

 

Hermione Granger lay facing him, her face flushed, a bead of sweat trailing from her throat to disappear into the valley of her creamy breasts.  She was a vision of lusty flesh, her hair pulled back in a hasty knot so that wavy rivulets of caramel hair fell about her face.  But it was her quirked lips that Blaise stared at, and the purple stain upon them, so dark that her skin seemed paler to the deep shade.

 

As Hermione’s toes moved to his thigh, over his sticky sac, he wondered if the colour purple had some sort of significance that he was missing, even her toenails were painted that royal shade…

 

Hermione adjusted her hips on the settee so that her knees were bended and her nimble purple toes could caress his burgeoning organ.  When she added her left foot to cradle his cock in the arches of her dainty feet, he growled.

 

It was not enough that he was a bit sore from their play moments before, it was not enough that his well-toned muscles in his waist and lower back ached, and it was not enough that he could smell her arousal wafting from between her open thighs…she was torturing him for some insane reason.  As far as Blaise knew, he had been a very good boy.

 

Of course, to have Hermione Granger on his sitting room settee while his wife of ten years just asleep in her room a story above, well, it was sinful.  Blaise’s young wife had her own lovers, which she took outside their home, but Blaise was the master of the house, and he could have Hermione Granger on the sitting room settee if he wanted.

 

Blaise grunted as Hermione began stroking his cock with the silky insoles of her feet, her hands moving to touch her wet folds, purple fingernails flicking over a hooded nubbin of flesh just between juicy, shaven labia.

 

Blaise glanced to the dress discarded on the wood parquet floor between the raging fireplace and the velvet green settee.

 

Again, purple.  The word ‘purple’ had been first used in the English language in 975 CE, he thought to distract himself.

 

Hermione moaned as a sticky drop of pearly white liquid dribbled from the head of his dark cock to lubricate her feet.  Simultaneous to her moan, or so it seemed to Blaise, Hermione’s purple-nailed fingers disappeared into her body, and the squelching sound of juices accompanied the motion.

 

He could not take it, not his wanton Hermione Granger, not her perfect, tiny, purple painted feet around his cock, and definitely not her purpled painted fingers thrusting inside her succulent pussy.  And so, he rose, ignoring the pain in his back, and pounced upon her, falling gracefully into the notch of her hips.

 

He grabbed her hair, and wrenched her head back roughly to bite into her neck, sure to leave bruises that even well place glamours could not hide easily.  Blaise Zabini did not like to be teased, albeit so affectionately with his mistress’ nimble feet.  He sucked at her pulse point and marked her, his lean, dark body exhorting over her, crushing her into the green velvet.

 

Hermione groaned as he shifted his hips, the tip of his thick cock brushing against her folds.  He relished the satisfaction of how she could not force her body to be impaled upon him, how her hips rocked to attempt to take him in.  Her purple tipped fingers dug into the backs of his thick arms, struggling to regain some semblance of control, but to no avail.  Blaise held her legs at the back of the knees, and his mouth moved to plunder her purple stained lips.  When Hermione acquiesced to tangle her tongue with his, her arms falling to her breasts, Blaise pushed at the backs of her knees, spreading her wide, sliding her on the settee so that when he sank into her pussy, she screamed.

 

Blaise lifted his torso to gaze down at his mistress, and her tortured face, as he slipped deeper into her.  He glanced down with emerald eyes to their joining, the way her inner labia stretched taut to accommodate his girth, the way the thin tendons of her inner thighs twitched, visually tracing the line of her calf to her foot…how the purple painted toes curled...

 

Blaise grinned, his perfect pearl white teeth barred.  Hermione’s pussy clenched as she gazed up at her lover.  Blaise rarely removed his stoic mask, but when he did, it was sign to expect something deviously extreme.

 

“Purple…is…” he started, his deep voice reverberating through Hermione’s body, working its way down to her clit.

 

He thrust, his large hands pushing her knees down so they touched her shoulders.  Hermione cried out, her arms pinned under her thighs, unable to touch Blaise, unable to hang onto him, and hang on to keeping herself from plunging into a sweet, ecstatic orgasm.

 

“…for royalty, my dove,” he hissed as he established a brutal, powerful cadence against the walls of her core and womb.

 

Blaise grunted as she came, juices staining the expensive settee and his groin.  She was not royalty, but Blaise knew she was queen of his desire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 915 words


	17. #17 - Red - Luna-Ginny (Friendship)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #17 – Red. Luna thought ‘red’ was overkill.

#17 - Red

* * *

The curtain flew back with a metallic hiss of rings on the cross bar, and Ginny Potter stepped out with as much bravado as she could muster.  Sashaying into the dressing room, she planted her palms on her slim hips, standing akimbo before her audience.  Ginny’s audience was hidden behind a book, Karl Shuker’s ‘The Beasts that Hide from Man.’

 

“Luna!”

 

Luna Scamander dropped her book in her lap, large blue eyes passively scanning her friend from head to toe.  It took Luna a few moments to realise what Ginny was wearing:   red fishnet stockings with suspender belts, gold Snitches tied in with the small lace bows, red knickers that left almost nothing to the imagination and a red bustier that pushed Ginny’s pert breast nearly to her throat.

 

It was lingerie.

 

Luna sighed softly, her eyes hurting from the sheer amount of red before her eyes.  It did not help matters that Ginny’s long hair was also nearly as red as what she wore, or what _little_ she wore.

 

“Well?  What do you think?” Ginny asked with a hint of irritation in her voice.

 

Luna stared blankly at the golden Snitches.

 

“Overkill.”

 

Ginny’s face reddened, and with a huff, she turned and stomped back into the dressing cubicle, pulling the dark blue velvet curtain with a growl.  Luna stared at the curtain for a long while before returning to her book.

 

Ginny had asked Luna’s advice—Luna had given it.  However, something had gotten lost in the translation, Luna realised, as she found herself sitting in an upscale lingerie shop in Wizarding Paris.  A ‘day for the girls’ had ended up being a weekend in Paris.  Ginny had nearly begged for ‘another woman’s’ advice, and Luna knew that her old friend must have been desperate if she wanted Luna Scamander’s advice.

 

‘Harry hasn’t touched me since little Jaime was born…what should I do?’ was basically what Ginny had asked Luna days before.

 

Luna had had her boys two years previous, and she and Rolf had been delighted to begin a family.  Luna supposed it was because she was Ginny’s old friend, who had also married and had children, perhaps Ginny considered her a kindred spirit, and Luna was not exactly sure.  However, when Ginny asked her what she should do in order to rekindle Harry Potter’s interest in his wife, in the bedroom, Luna suggested doing something ‘different.’

 

“It doesn’t have to be clothes, or a new hairstyle…it can be something simple,” Luna had said.

 

Somehow, Luna’s words had been translated by Ginny as buying sexy lingerie in Paris.

 

The curtain opened again, and Luna blinked.

 

Ginny was wearing a red peignoir over another sheer red baby doll, and no knickers.  Luna wondered if she should avert her eyes.

 

“Well?” Ginny asked again, turning in a circle.

 

Luna wondered if she should laugh at the way the chiffon was floating on the air.  It was pretty, but…

 

“Why red?”

 

Ginny stood again, arms akimbo.

 

“It’s Harry’s favourite colour.”

 

Luna said nothing for a long while, trying not to stare at her friend’s visible body parts.  She was considering her words carefully, her book sliding into her lap again.

 

“You should just talk to him, Ginny.”

 

Ginny frowned.  “What do you mean?”

 

Luna grasped her book so it would not slide into the floor, and then decided to focus her eyes upon the lovely blue velvet curtains of the dressing room—she really did think it was a lovely shade.

 

“Tell Harry that you miss him…”

 

“But I see him every day!”

 

Luna wanted to sigh.  After Lysander and Lorcan were born, Rolf had been hesitant to be affectionate in the bedroom.  Rolf had been clueless as it what to do after Luna had birthed two beautiful boys.  Rolf was not sure how to be a husband anymore, just when he had learned how to be a father.

 

And Luna said this aloud, fascinated at the way the recessed lighting of the fancy Parisian boutique fell over the nap of the blue velvet.

 

“Harry is surely feeling the same way.  He loves you, there is no doubt in that, he just needs to be reminded that you are not just the mother of his heir…but his wife…and his wife has needs…”

 

Ginny stared at Luna, mouth slightly agape, her hands sliding from her hips to cover her visible parts…

 

“And, I think red is not the best colour on you, you should try blue…”

 

And then Luna smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 748 words


	18. #18 - Black - Bellatrix/Rodolphus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #18 – Black. After tonight, she would no longer be a Black.

#18 - Black

* * *

 

“Don’t rip it!”

 

He disobeyed as he ripped the ties of her corseted dress, his large hands wrenching away the offending fabric that kept him from the deathly white skin he had wanted to touch.

 

He had promised himself that his wedding night would be the night he released his pent up frustrations upon her.  For years, he wanted her, only to be told that she was “saving herself.”  What utter tripe.  Bellatrix Black had been entertaining some hope that he, Rodolphus Lestrange, knew would never come true.

 

They had married at the behest of their parents.  There were proud tears, firm handshakes; the blood purity of their family lines had been affirmed. 

 

When he ripped her skirts open, she cried out.  He knew that she had enjoyed the roughness of his touch, but had no clue as to how rough he was going to be when he finished tearing away her wedding dress.

 

Bella, as he had always called her in school, was mad.  Very much like her aunt Walburga Black, Rodolphus knew that the only way he could insinuation himself into her mad brain was in imprint himself deep inside Bella’s body.  He would breech her maidenhead, and never let her forget that he was her husband.

 

Their relationship had always been strained in school.  Rodolphus was a handsome boy, black eyes, black hair, fair skin, and Bella—Bella had been the mad Black sister.  She was not pretty, not handsome like Andromeda or Narcissa, but she was intelligent beneath the insanity that marred her features.

 

Grasping her long, black hair, Rodolphus threw Bella’s small frame into the bed that would be theirs for the rest of their marriage.  The Lestrange Lodge was Rodolphus’ now that he was married, having dispatched his father the year before with a few drops of poison in Radaghast Lestrange’s usual evening goblet of elf wine.

 

Bella was nude on the white bedding, her skin almost indistinguishable for the sheets.  As she twisted on the bed, Rodolphus was confronted by her blazing, angry eyes, and dark nether curls, he wondered if his cock could get any harder.  He had wanted this for a long time.

 

To fuck a Black—he grinned and he shrugged out of his robes and toed out of his shoes.  Bella’s eyes watched him, her red painted mouth curling downward.  Bella was the only Black sister who had not lost her virginity in school, but Rodolphus was going to take it now.

 

When he kissed her, she tried to bite him.

 

It was clear that she truly did not care for him, she had protested the marriage, but knew that there was no better alternative.  Rabastian would not have Bella in a manner that would allow Bella to live long after her wedding night.  Rodolphus knew Bella would not stand much of a chance with his brother no matter _how_ mad she was.  In the very least, in his black heart, Rodolphus cared for Bella.

 

“You will submit,” he growled, pulling away from their slightly bloody kiss.

 

Bella spat a curse and tried to hit him, but Rodolphus crushed his weight down upon her, his large right hand trapping her thin wrists together between their bodies.

 

“You will submit, and I will make you something more than the mad Black sister.  I will fuck you, you will bleed, and for that point on, you will no longer be a Black.  You will be _my_ wife…” he growled, his breath hot upon her face.

 

Bella’s eyes widened as Rodolphus jerked her to sit up on the bed, he moving with a practiced grace, his muscles rippling under pale skin appearing gold in the candlelight of the bed chamber.

 

Bella whimpered as she found herself straddling Rodolphus’ hips, trying to put as much distance between herself and the thick, erect cock pointing upward from the black curls around the base.

 

Rodolphus smirked.  Bella should be afraid, he thought.  He did not care if she were aroused, did not care if she loved him, he was going to make her bleed, and have her taste it off his cock later.  The perversity should suit her, he thought.

 

Holding her wrists with one hand, he shifted so that in a moment he would push her down upon him—impale her, kill her with a rending of thin flesh.

 

She spat another curse as the tip of his cock brushed along her slit, finding only a small bit of moisture there.  When he found the notch of her pelvis and the tight orifice of her pussy, he wedged the tip inside.

 

“I hate you!” she hissed, trying uselessly to twist away.  She was too small, too weak to ever escape him.

 

“Not for long…” he whispered malevolently as he grasped her hip.

 

“No…” she whispered, her lips trembling.

 

“Too late, my dear,” he answered.

 

And with a grunt, Rodolphus pushed her down while rising up.  There was a sort of pop and a tremble, and suddenly, he was inside Bella.  He ignored her howl and cry, his hand crushing her wrists together at the sheer heavenly sensation of her body around his.  He felt more moisture, knowing that it was her blood, but still he began to move.  What did he care about her pain?  She had been his source of pain for so long.

 

When he finally released her wrists, Bella seemed to reciprocate a bit more, moving her hips to meet his while he manoeuvered her to her hands and knees.  He held her bony hips, thrusting mercilessly into her tight, small body, grasping the back of her hair roughly to thrust more soundly.

 

She still cursed him, and he knew she would for some time yet.  Blacks were proficient at cursing, but as he stared at the bumps of her curved spine, he smirked at the thought that before long Bella would crave his touch, and that, after that night, she was not a Black any longer.  She was his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 999 words


	19. #19 - White - Charlie/Tonks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #19 – White. He bore all the little white scars with pride.

#19 - White

* * *

The only lasting reminder of Nymphadora Tonks was the numerous little white scars on his skin.  Charlie Weasley sat at the memorial service, trying to count the scars on his hands and forearms that were caused inadvertently or directly by the woman being remembered that day in July 1998.

 

The large crescent shape scar on the top his left wrist had been where Tonks had tripped in her Fifth Year and caused Charlie to fall down a set of stairs, his wrist catching the toe of a suit of armor.  Charlie had been in Sixth Year, and like the Seeker he had been, had tried to catch the bumbling Hufflepuff girl.

 

The small, rough scar on the top of his right forearm was from a time he and Tonks had been patrolling for the Order near the edge of Magnolia Crescent near Harry Potter’s Muggle residence.  The backfiring of a car had startled her and, trying to be heroic, he supposed, pushed him into a mulberry bush.  Charlie remembered cursing Tonks so fiercely that her hair had turned a redder shade than his own.

 

Charlie’s memories were disrupted as Kingsley Shacklebolt, the current Minister of Magic, began his speech honouring the dead.  Charlie cast his brilliant turquoise eyes about the assembly, noting that Harry Potter was sitting very close to Ginny and that Hermione Granger was trying not to look uncomfortable with Ron’s arm about her shoulders.

 

Moving his eyes to hands resting on his lap, he studied a small line of a scar resting between the fold of the first and second knuckle of his right middle finger.  He remembered that scar with humour and fondness.  Tonks had bit him.

 

Charlie and Tonks, once upon a time, had been a couple.  Tonks was a Seventh Year and Charlie was apprenticing in Wales at one of the dragon preserves.  Quite often Charlie returned to Hogwarts since its library was the most comprehensive on the subject of Care of Magical Creatures.

 

“Been bitten yet?” she had asked one weekend they had slipped into the Forbidden Forest, pitching a tent in a gap between oak trees, safe from the notice of the creatures of the Forest.

 

“Burnt, but not bitten,” he had replied, lying back on the extra wide cot in the magical tent, one hand behind his head, the other brushing along Tonks’ true heart-shaped, pretty face.

 

She had been changing her hair every ten seconds, keeping it long and past her bare shoulders, but changing the colour.  When he had answered the long, straight tresses had been the same shade as his eyes.

 

Tonks was examining his ribs and the slick, smooth skin on his left side where he was burnt by a Welsh Green hatchling a few weeks prior.  She lay on his right side, her small breasts pressing into his right side.

 

Charlie could not say that he loved Tonks, a love that meant exclusivity was not what he felt for her.  When she was not causing more scars, Tonks was a lovely conversationalist.  With Charlie, she was soft-spoken, feminine, pretty.

 

Tonks was laughing at his answer to her question when his fingers moved to touch her soft lips.  It was then she bit him.

 

The bite did not hurt at first, but when Charlie pulled his finger away, he was bleeding.  He did not get angry, Charlie Weasley rarely got angry, but when the pain lanced through him, he showed Nymphadora Tonks how he dealt with pain when a pretty, young witch was nearby.

 

Charlie remembered how Tonks laughed when he made love to her.  Those laughs were interspersed with the most erotic moans Charlie ever heard.  Her body, which she never changed for him, always seemed so small and so perfect under his own.

 

“Nymphadora Tonks-Lupin, Order of Merlin, First Class…”

 

Kingsley was awarding the Order of Merlin posthumously to those who had died.  However, with the addition of ‘Lupin’ after Tonks’ name, Charlie sighed.

 

All the little white scars on his skin had been nothing to the scars that Remus Lupin, or even Bill, had to bear. 

 

Charlie had never been surprised that Tonks would fall for Remus.  Remus was the kindest man Charlie Weasley ever knew.  And, he knew, that Tonks would only ever fall for the kind, good guy.  The only reason Tonks had ever considered anyone but Charlie was because Charlie was not always the ‘good guy.’  However, as Charlie listened to the sobs and sniffles around him, he supposed he should have counted himself as lucky for not being such a ‘good guy.’  He was still alive because he was not a ‘good guy.’

 

All the little white scars on his skin had been a testament to his life’s work.  He cried for no one, not even Tonks.  He did not cry because after breaking Tonks’ heart weeks after she had given him the scar on his finger, he got close to no one.  Oh, he did his duty to his family, to the Order, but Charlie Weasley was not a ‘good guy.’  He was just the guy who preferred dragons to people, and wore his white scars like armor about his heart.

 

As the assembly began to disperse, the hot late day July sun causing most to return to the castle, Charlie sat for a moment staring at the scars on the back of his left hand.  Three parallel scars, nail marks, the most painful scar to Charlie, not because of how the skin had been torn, because it had been caused by Tonks the last time he had seen her alive.  It was his newest scar.

 

“I will follow my husband, Charlie, now let me go!” she roared even as spells were flying all around them.

 

Charlie had grasped her wrist before she had run to follow Remus.  He had had a sudden fear.  Battle did not rattle Charlie Weasley, but he knew that he would lose friends and family that night in May.

 

“Don’t go, Dora.  I…” he had started, his voice not weak, but muffled by his own indecision over his fear.

 

Tonks ripped at his hand, and when she scratched him, he released her.  She said nothing, but glared, whirling through the mist and dust after Remus.  Charlie knew that moments later Tonks would fall with Remus.

 

The white scars had once been red and bleeding, but as Charlie moved away from the empty chairs of the absent assembly, he knew that he would carry all his scars, even the ones Tonks had given him, with pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,091 words


	20. #20 - Blue - Severus-Luna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #20 – Blue. Luna in the moonlight

#20 - Blue

* * *

He found the first article of clothing in the grass halfway between the front doors of the castle and the Black Lake.  A cloak with a blue and silver patch on the breast...  A Ravenclaw student.

 

Severus Snape snarled.  It would not do for some Ravenclaw to see him walking to the gate, clutching his Mark.  The Mark did not burn too painfully yet, and Severus growled as he picked up the robe and began moving toward the Lake.  Surely, there was time to take points from the student, perhaps a hundred or so.  It was past curfew, and no student, no matter whom, had the right to be on the grounds after curfew!

 

Next, Severus spotted a pair of blue trainers haphazardly discarded, small, a girl’s pair of shoes.  He did not bother to pick them up.

 

The moon shined down the Lake in the distance, and Severus could see that other articles of clothing dotted the grounds, forming a path to follow.

 

After finding a pair of socks then a blue blouse, Severus rolled his dark eyes, knowing that he would most likely find a nude girl near the shore of the lake.  However, as he came upon a blue lacy bra, he did not think about having to forcefully dress a student and march her back to the castle, he was caught up in the sound of a voice singing.

 

The voice was a lower soprano, not quite alto, and it was airy and light.  It reminded Severus of wind chimes his mother had hanging just outside the kitchen window at Spinner’s End.  The memory of the chimes had always warmed him, and so did the sound of the voice singing on the shore.

 

‘Somewhere…beyond the sea…somewhere, waiting for me…’

 

He knew the song.

 

When he came upon a pair of blue denims, he paused, just making out a silhouette of a figure standing knee-deep in the icy Lake.  Stalking forward again, the girl’s words floating out across the Lake, Severus steeled his resolve and his nerves, as the Mark began to burn a bit hotter under his skin.

 

‘…my lover stands on golden sands, and watches the ships…go sailing…’

 

At the edge of the shore, Severus glanced down at a pair of blue lacy knickers and sighed in slight annoyance, still holding the Ravenclaw robes over his right arm.

 

The girl stood with her back to him, long straw-coloured hair spilling down back to her waist, her arms outstretched as she sang, her pale skin silver in the moonlight.

 

Severus watched her as she sang, and realised that her voice was accentuated by an eerie sound from the water.

 

She was thin, too thin to be thought of as pretty, and Severus sighed, he had been much the same way as a student.

 

Skipping to the chorus, she sang: ‘It’s far beyond the stars…it’s beyond the moon…I know beyond a doubt…my heart will lead me there soon…’

 

Her voice was haunting, ethereal, but Severus knew that he would be remiss in his duty as an instructor if he did not stop her.

 

“What are you doing, Miss…” he trailed, his initial snark draining as he realized he did not know who the student was.

 

Her singing stopped, and slowly, as if not surprised she had an audience, she turned.

 

Her wand was sticking from her head from behind her ear, and ugly turnip-like earrings bobbled about her throat.

 

“Singing to the Merpeople,” she stated, her wide silver eyes meeting his.

 

Severus’ breath caught.  Luna Lovegood…

 

It was not because she was naked, it was not because she was a naked _student_ …it was her voice and her eyes—like a siren’s song, and a sphinx’s eyes.  He was entranced.  He barely remembered the girl from his classes.  But as the corners of her lips curled up into a blithe smile, Severus felt his belly tighten and his body respond. 

 

“Don’t you need to be someplace?” she asked her airy voice melodic as the song of the Merfolk drifted up through the water around her.

 

Severus swallowed thickly, and nodded, dropping her robe just on the rocky shore.

 

“I won’t tell, if you don’t…” she whispered, turning back to face the Lake.

 

Severus nearly ran from the shore, his eyes catching the blue articles of clothing on his way back, his thoughts having remained at the shore.

 

Luna in the moonlight, singing about the sea...  It was too poetic, but to Severus Snape, it was sublime.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 748 words


	21. #21 - Friends - Ron/Hermione/Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #21 – Friends. Their friendship would endure.

#21 - Friends

* * *

 

 

It was his turn to keep watch, and so Ron Weasley sat next to the tent flap, Hermione having taken his place in Harry’s arms.  Ron wrapped his arms tighter in his coat, gripping his wand just inside its holster.

 

It was a mad world, and Ron knew that none of them would have imagined that they would be thrown together again in a war.  Three friends who had once prevailed over Voldemort would have to struggle against another dark wizard.  But this time, it was not Harry who would be expected to save their world, but Hermione.

 

Harry shifted in his sleep, his hand moving from Hermione to scratch at the chain about his neck, the chain with his wedding band Harry usually kept hidden in his shirt when he was dressed.  Ron sighed, moving his eyes from Harry’s golden wedding band to stare out the flap of their tent, the same one they had used years before when searching for the Horcruxes.

 

It had been a year since Ginny had been killed, along with Harry’s son James.

 

Ron rubbed his cheek, itchy with his beard, against his shoulder.  Hermione would have been his wife two years ago if it had not been for the war.  He listened to her sigh, Harry’s arm wrapping about her waist again.

 

Ron shivered as a particularly cold breeze reached him where he sat on a crate near the entrance, and heard Harry sniff in his sleep, pulling the blankets over he and Hermione.

 

They were too tired tonight after having to run for days, trying to escape the impending darkness that threatened to sweep them up.  It had been a few weeks since any of them had to keep watch.  Most often they slept together, holding each other tight for warmth, holding each other for security.  Hermione slept in the middle, usually on her left side, facing Ron.  Harry was pressed into her back, his face obscured by her hair.

 

It had been an arrangement they began years ago, Hermione in the middle, her softer curves comfortable between Harry and Ron, her feminine body soothing between them.

 

Ron did not watch, but listened as Harry kissed Hermione’s bare shoulder.  Ron did not mind watching Harry slip his hand lower on Hermione’s hip under the blankets.  He did not mind Hermione’s tiny whimper when Harry’s fingers found the cleft between her thighs.  He did not mind because Ron had done the same thing to her.

 

Harry was only moving half-aware of what he was doing, and most often than not, rubbed himself against the soft curve of her ass, only grunting softly when he came against her back.  It would not be until Harry rose to take Ron’s watch that he would gently wash his seed away from her skin with a damp cloth from the basin near the cot, careful not wake her.

 

Some nights, they would lay awake, moving against each other, doing much more than sliding skin against skin for some semblance of completion.  Ron took Hermione completely, thrusting gently into her supple body while Harry watched, stroking himself until Ron was spent, taking Ron’s place in Hermione.

 

And Hermione?  She usually initiated their lovemaking, wanting to feel both of her best friends near her, inside her, to make her forget, to make her feel love instead of fear.  Hermione made it a point to tell them both how much she loved them.  After Voldemort, she told them she had feared she had lost them both to their separate lives…

 

However, this time, in this war, she was the target, she was the treasure to be protected.  And they protected her well like two sleeping dragons curled about the damsel.

 

Ron was lost in his thoughts when Harry touched his shoulder.  Harry had risen and dressed, smiling softly to his old friend and motioning for Ron to slip next to Hermione.  Ron sighed, gripping Harry’s shoulder in a gesture of trust, and allowed Harry to take his place.  Ron undressed quickly, and settled in beside Hermione whose sleepy brown eyes watched him in the lamplight.  Ron quickly gathered Hermione in his arms, letting her rest upon his chest, her warm knee slipping between his thighs.

 

“You’re cold, Ron,” she whispered, pulling the blanket over them both, sliding her bare feet against the hair of his legs.

 

Ron only hummed, closing his eyes as Hermione rubbed her skin against his in an effort to warm him.

 

Harry chuckled quietly, watching Hermione rub Ron’s thick, muscular arms to warm his pale skin.  Harry grinned as Hermione moved to slip under the blanket, her head tenting the blanket just over Ron’s groin.

 

Harry studied Ron’s face, which was trying not make one slight expression in reaction to what Hermione was doing.  Ron swore under his breath, his hands disappearing under the blankets.  Harry covered his mouth with his hand to smother a laugh.  To distract himself, Harry turned to peer out into the darkness beyond the tent flap.  He could only see the vague outline of trees around the tent and nothing more.

 

Hermione’s voice brought Harry’s thoughts to the tent, and glancing out of the corner of his eyes, he saw that Ron was lapping at her centre while she licked the topside of his cock.  It was a tantalizing sight, Hermione’s eyes meeting Harry’s her pink tongue circling the head of Ron’s swollen member, her breasts swaying as Ron manipulated the position of her hips over his face, his beard rasping against her most tender of flesh...

 

Harry’s let his face shift, pleading with Hermione.  He had to keep watch now.  Recent events had led them to keep watch for the past few days.  It was for her safety.

 

Hermione closed her eyes, her mouth engulfing Ron, releasing Harry from her spell.

 

With a sigh, Harry turned his attention to the night again.  Three friends fighting another war, for what?  Harry scratched his old curse scar then his nose, ignoring Ron’s voice as he moaned.  Harry loved them both, and he touched the wedding band under the fabric of his shirt.  He loved them both more than anything, more than what the wedding band stood for, and more than himself…  They loved him just the same, they loved each other. 

 

They were friends, forever and a day, and no matter how many dark wizards threatened them, their friendship would endure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,069 words


	22. #22 - Enemies - Harry/Draco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #22 – Enemies. Give what you want to take…

#22 - Enemies

* * *

 

 

 

Harry could taste blood, but it was not his blood.  His blood had never tasted so sweet.  The pale haired man groaned into Harry’s mouth as his white hands trailed bloody fingerprints down Harry’s belly to edge in between denim and muscle, lower, lower until manicured nails tangled in the black thatch of hair just above his painfully hard cock.

 

Harry’s hips jerked as old denim was ripped away and cold air smacked against his skin, and suddenly his straining organ was free.  The bloody mouth was torn away from Harry’s lips, and kisses were pressed into his belly, his hips…and his…

 

“Fuck!” Harry hissed as pale hair spilled over his thighs, and a bloody mouth engulfed his cock.

 

Green eyes burned into the head that was bobbing over his erection, and Harry was momentarily confused as to why Draco Malfoy’s long platinum hair was tinged pink with blood just at the right temple.

 

Oh, yes…  Harry had struck Malfoy there, and cut at the ivory skin so that blood poured down Malfoy’s haughty face.  In fact, Malfoy was bloody from naked head to bare toe, and Harry had caused the pale, fey man to bleed.

 

“Harder…” Harry growled, his fingers tangling into Malfoy’s hair, pushing the man’s head down.  Malfoy’s throat constricted slightly and closed about the head of Harry’s cock.  “Suck harder, you bastard,” Harry hissed through clenched teeth.

 

After so many hours of beating the man for information and getting not one iota of compliance…  Malfoy sucked harder.

 

Harry groaned as Malfoy took his cock from tip to root.  Malfoy did not seem so unschooled at sucking cock, and Harry felt more at ease with his decision to strip Malfoy of everything—his wand, his dignity, and his clothes—in order to prove one simple point:  Harry was the master of Draco Malfoy’s destiny.  Harry was the judge and jury.

 

“More…” Harry gasped, spreading his legs wider in the chair he sat upon, the tatters of denim falling to the floor about Malfoy’s knees.

 

Malfoy made a noise deep in his chest, and Harry gasped as Malfoy used his bloody right hand to grasp Harry’s sac.  But Malfoy was not simply satisfied with rolling Harry’s testicles in his palm.  Drawing back for only a moment, Harry watched through his lashes as Malfoy moved his bloody fingers to his mouth, sucking at his first two fingers.  Harry frowned at the motion and wondered if he should be on guard for some concealed weapon, but no, Malfoy swallowed his cock again, saliva, blood, and pre-cum trailing between Malfoy’s red lips and the tip.

 

“Bloody hell!” Harry shouted as he realized why Malfoy had licked at his fingers.

 

Harry’s hips jerked rhythmically as Malfoy’s forefinger thrust shallowly into Harry’s pucker and Malfoy’s throat sucking his cock down, tighter, tighter…

 

Harry grasped Malfoy’s hair, thrusting into the Pureblood’s mouth as that same Pureblood’s finger wriggled deeper into his ass.  Harry’s vision swam as his body arched from the chair.  Malfoy seemed to whimper as Harry fucked the man’s mouth, every motion forced painfully and without a care as to the comfort of the pale man Harry brutalised.  The thought of brutalising Malfoy further passed through Harry’s mind.  Take the pale man on his knees, force his cock into the pale man’s hole, and then begin asking the questions to which Harry desperately needed the answers.  If Malfoy really hated Voldemort as much as he claimed, why wasn’t Malfoy telling him what the Snake Snogger did to Ron?  What had Voldemort done to him so that he could not bear to look at Harry now?

 

Harry was close to bursting as Malfoy’s finger twisted and was pressing repeatedly against his prostate.  He panted as his body relaxed back into the folding chair he had placed in the basement cell of Grimmauld Place.  Malfoy’s oral ministrations lessened, and Harry growled in warning to the bloody man.

 

“Suck it,” he hissed, grasping Malfoy’s hair roughly, causing the man’s face to contort in pain, but Malfoy did not open his eyes.  Instead, Malfoy’s throat tightened as he moved his mouth over Harry’s cock, careful of his teeth, and moving his tongue to curl around the thick erection.

 

Another growl rumbled from Harry’s chest as a second finger worked into his pucker, and soon Harry had moved from the chair, straddling Malfoy’s chest, his painfully hard erection lodged in Malfoy’s throat and Malfoy’s fingers working Harry’s hole.

 

Sliding his wand from the holster on his forearm, Harry managed to Vanish the rest of his clothes before all his power of thought was given over to forcing his hips to thrust toward Malfoy’s face.  Replacing his wand, Harry leaned forward, his fingers wrapping into the platinum strands just above Malfoy’s forehead, using his other hand to rest on the floor for balance, fucking the ‘ferret’s’ mouth in earnest.

 

It was a fitting use for Malfoy’s mouth, Harry thought.

 

And with that thought, Harry roared, his sac tightening and a burst of cum spraying into the back of Malfoy’s throat.  Harry’s vision wavered as Malfoy’s fingers pulled free of his ass, Malfoy turning his head away, more white streams of ejaculate smearing across his left cheek.

 

Harry fell away, scooting across the stone floor of the basement and far away from the pale, bloody man on the floor, coughing up Harry’s seed.

 

“Where’s Hermione?” Malfoy asked, rolling onto his right side, not bothering to look at Harry who fell back against the wall, his cock still leaking cum.  Harry was panting heavily, and it took a few moments to register’s Malfoy’s hoarse words.

 

“Where is my wife?” Malfoy asked, curling into a ball upon the floor.

 

Harry stared at the bloody gashes on Malfoy’s back, his cock deflating.  Finally, Malfoy was talking.

 

“You tell me what I need to know, Malfoy, and I _might_ tell you that your traitorous, Mudblood whore is still alive,” Harry growled as his breathing evened.

 

Harry’s eyes moved to the lean muscles of Malfoy’s buttocks and he smirked.  Hermione had betrayed him with this pale man, and now that Harry had had Hermione, he wondered if her cock-sucking husband would want her back—or vice versa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,043 words


	23. #23 - Lovers - Arthur/Molly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #23 – Lovers. They had started out as lovers.

#23 - Lovers

* * *

 

 

 

Sometimes he forgot that they had started out as lovers.  After so many years, it seemed to Arthur Weasley that they had had so little time as lovers.

When he thought back, they had been ‘lovers’ at Hogwarts before the responsibility of adulthood was truly felt upon their shoulders.  Hours were whiled away by the shore of the Black Lake, kissing her soft lips.  That had only been the beginning in their Fifth Year.  In Sixth Year, he had made love to her behind one of the greenhouses during the Halloween Feast.  It had been clumsy, neither of them truly knowing how to ‘make love’ only using instinct to guide them.  Every private moment after that night had been spent on refining touches, kisses, thrusts, and moans.  In Seventh Year, they were truly lovers, finding pleasure in each other, knowing just where to kiss, where to touch.

When they were married not long after Seventh Year, they were lovers still.  However, being able to say ‘my wife—my husband’ destroyed the fantasy bit by bit.  They were no longer lovers, but married.

Arthur wondered why it had to be that way.  They were poor, but happy.  They were together, but something began to change.  They did not realise how much things had changed until their first son was born.  They were no longer lovers, they were parents.

Arthur had wanted to start over, again and again, and somehow it always resulted in another child.  Arthur loved his children, he loved his wife for loving their children, yet, he wondered why everything had to change from those listless days when he and Molly were lovers.

The War came, and Arthur cleaved to his family, his most precious thing.  Molly was his warrior wife, so strong, so beautiful in his eyes that he wanted more than anything to take her away, keep her to himself—his lover.  Even when a strained peace fell, Arthur felt so separated from her, as if a final cord had been cut.  Molly was the mother, the rock, the constant.  She was needed, depended upon.  Arthur could only watch as they both grew older.

He was a grandfather, he was giving away his only daughter at her wedding, he was bouncing more babies on his knee, and he was getting old and wistful.

“Arthur?”

The Burrow was empty except for them.  It was the first time since before Bill was born.  The silence frightened him as he sat at the kitchen table, reading and rereading the same line in the Prophet.

“Yes, dear?” he asked, distracted from even Molly’s voice.

When the newspaper was Vanished from his hands, Arthur realised that he had been sitting for hours trying to remember something—it was gone at the sight of his wife.

“Ahem,” she coughed.

Molly was sitting on the far end of the scrubbed tabletop, her lovely, long auburn hair down about her shoulders.  She wore her old school uniform, a feat impossible in the years past.  The War had thinned her out, and as much as it bothered Arthur to see his wife in such a state…

“Mollywobbles…” he muttered, blinking rapidly.

Even in her late fifties, she was still as incandescently beautiful as the first time he laid eyes upon her in their First Year.

He had been so wrong, it was not the first time, and it would not be the last.  Rising from his seat, he moved along the side of the table, his fingers finding the pleated hem of her skirt.

Life had a strange way of coming round in cycles, he mused as he kissed her sweet mouth.  Lovers in the beginning, lovers until the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 614 words


	24. #24 - Family - Lucius/Narcissa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #24 – Family. He would protect them.

#24 - Family

* * *

His son was so small, but already he could see his own features on the babe’s face.  The same eyes, the same brow, the same mouth.  Leaning over the bassinet, Lucius Malfoy grinned down at the baby boy, his pale fingers moving over the tiny blond skull.  The baby was only two months old, and already Lucius knew that his son was going to grow to be a great man.

 

“Come to bed, luv…if you wake him again, by Merlin I will fix it that you will never father another child,” a tired, feminine voice called from the door of the nursery.

 

Lucius turned, his long platinum blond hair falling from his shoulder, flowing like a curtain of silver.  With one last look to his son, Draco, he moved across the nursery to where his wife stood already in her nightdress.  Narcissa, his beloved wife, and mother of his child, seemed very tired after tending to their son all day.  Even as he approached her, Lucius could see the slight discolouration in the fine white fabric of her nightdress, where her heavy breasts had leaked upon the material after feeding Draco hours before.

 

Taking her arm, Lucius walked his wife to the bedroom door on a few paces from the nursery.  Settling his wife into her place in the their bed, Lucius sat on the edge of the mattress, and petted Narcissa’s wavy honey coloured hair.

 

“Aren’t you coming to bed, luv?” she asked softly, her eyelids heavy over her robin-egg’s blue eyes.

 

He said nothing for a moment, the smile he had held beginning to drain away.  Brushing the knuckles of his left hand over Narcissa’s pale cheek he glanced at the bare stretch of skin of his inner forearm and the discolouration of the skin.

 

“He will call me tonight, there is something happening…news Severus is bringing,” Lucius whispered as Narcissa’s eyes widened for a moment, but began drifting shut again.

 

Lucius could not begin to explain how much he loved his Narcissa, the way her hair felt in his fingers, how her lips tasted when he kissed her, or how her body felt around his when he took her in their bed.  She was beautiful, brilliant, and far more loving than anyone besides himself and his son would ever know.

 

“Be careful,” she whispered, her eyes finally shutting, and sleep erasing the lines on her worried brow, and the worry from around her mouth.

 

He sighed as he slowly stood, burning the vision of Narcissa into his brain.  Surely, when the Dark Lord would cast the Cruciatus upon him, as he usually did whenever Lucius was summoned, the memory of his wife sleeping in their bed would bring a type of relief.

 

She was breathing deeply, her full breasts rising and falling, her full belly less rounded now that the weight she had gained carrying Draco was being worked away by caring for the babe.  The motherly glow remained on her skin, and would stay until Draco was weaned.

 

Lucius fought down the urge to wake her, and take her.  He wanted her, and had had her up until Draco was born.  The Healers told him that until her body adjusted to birthing a child, and her ‘hormones’ regulated, sex was to be avoided.  Narcissa had had a hard childbirth, and Lucius feared that another child would be harmful to his wife…

 

Moving to the wardrobe, Lucius opened the door, anticipating that any moment his Mark would burn, and he would have to hastily grab his Death Eater robes.  But the burning had not yet come.

 

He continued to watch her slip deeper into sleep, the darkness of the bedroom softening the shadows under her eyes.  Narcissa was a wonderful mother, far better than her own had ever been…  Lucius’ own mother had been almost like a myth in his mind—he never saw her.  Draco would be different; he would know his parents loved him.

 

Lucius’ heart swelled at the memories of little Draco in Narcissa’s arms, gurgling happily as his mother played with him in the conservatory, sunlight making mother and child’s hair glow like silver and gold halos about their happy faces.

 

She shifted in her sleep, her right hand falling to her hip, and Lucius took a shaky breath.

 

Of all the arranged marriages of an age, how could Lucius have been so lucky to have such a woman at his side?  He wanted her…  He wanted her…

 

His trousers became uncomfortable as he leaned back into the corner of the wardrobe.  His Mark would burn at any moment, but he still unfastened the front placket of his trousers.  Two months without sinking into his wife’s body, and months more before he could do so again, forced Lucius Malfoy to literally take ‘matters’ into his own hands.

 

Grunting at the first stroke, Lucius’ eyes flew to his wife, wondering if his voice had woken her.  Not that Narcissa would mind…  Lucius grinned, knowing that his wife was one lascivious witch, her own libido as heightened as his own.  She lamented her condition as much as he did; no sex for an undetermined amount of time was simply unfair in her mind.

 

Lucius began stroking his turgid cock, his hand moving quickly, hoping to relieve the tension before his Mark burned, before Narcissa would wake, and stare at him with pitiful eyes lamenting that she could not share in his pleasure.

 

Pressure was building in his pelvis, and Lucius shut his grey eyes, his head falling back into the corner of the wardrobe painfully. 

 

“Guh!’ he gasped as his Mark burned, and sticky white threads of cum flew from the tip of his twitching cock to land on the floor between the bed and the wardrobe.  The pain of the Mark had only intensified his release, and Lucius sank to his knees, his ejaculation seeming to never end.

 

Glancing up to the bed with dazed eyes, he saw Narcissa was still sleeping.  He listened for Draco’s cries in the next room, but there was none.

 

Panting, Lucius struggled to redo the buttons of his trousers, rising to his feet.  Shaking his blond mane of hair, he moved to don his robes.

 

Family…  His family…and he was leaving it for a man who had no time or care for such a thing as love or family…

 

Something was not quite right with his Lord’s beliefs, but still, Lucius slipped his mask to his face and with one last look through the eyes of the mask, he sighed wistfully at the vision of his wife.

 

And then he was gone, and the world would change with another boy named Harry Potter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,115 words


	25. #25 - Strangers - Hermione/Charlie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #25 – Strangers. Can strangers become friends?

#25 - Strangers

* * *

She thought him to be a complete stranger; Ron’s older brother, the one who worked with dragons in Romania.  They had never really talked much, only acknowledging each other at Weasley family functions or at Order meetings years before.  But as his rough fingers of his right hand pinched her nipple and his calloused left fingers rasped against her clit, causing her to moan into the shaggy locks of his ginger hair, Hermione Granger wondered why she had not acquainted herself with Charlie Weasley sooner.

 

In the grass on backside of the garden hedge, Charlie Weasley had pulled open her clothes, like plucking off petals of a tulip.  All through the Weasley family meal, celebrating Harry’s thirtieth birthday, Hermione had caught Charlie staring at her.  From one end to the table to the other, his cool gaze made the hairs on the back of her arms stand.  Ron, now her ex-husband, did not seem to notice the exchange.  Ron was still a friend, but as always, he was clueless to the fact that his brother was staring blatantly at his ex-wife.  Charlie’s gaze shifted from cool to hot, and Hermione blushed as she realised he was staring at the cleft between her breasts, the low neckline of her dress a bit inappropriate for a family gathering.

 

After the cake had been cut, the appropriate song sang, the family ate and talked until the sunset as enchanted bluebell lights lit the garden.  When the gibbous slivered moon began to climb the clear late July sky, the family began retiring for the night.  Ron had left early, Apparating back to his flat that he shared with Dean Thomas in Chudley.  Harry and Ginny had returned to Islington, George to Diagon Alley with Angelina, Bill, Fleur and the children to Cornwall, Percy and Audrey to Essex, Molly and Arthur into the Burrow, leaving Hermione and Charlie alone in the garden.

 

They did not speak, but moved to the edge of the garden where the night was deeper, and soon were in the grass behind the garden hedge, hands searching, mouths tasting.

 

They had been strangers, even when Charlie had danced with her at her wedding.  She remembered how his large hands had molded around her waist, how his blue eyes seemed to be lit by some internal furnace.  They had been strangers who could spark something primal and base whenever they touched.

 

Charlie suckled at her breasts as her hands opened the button of his fly to his old denims.  Pushing at the waist back, the peel of a zipper freed his cock, hard and heavy, slapping into her lower belly.

 

Hermione moaned as Charlie shifted to his knees, his mouth lifting from her breast.  With a shrug, he tossed his tee shirt aside so that it was caught in the trimmed hedge.  The blue light from the garden and the dim moonlight cast Charlie’s skin in a silver light, accentuating the various burn scars and rippled muscles of his chest.

 

Ron could only dream to look so delicious, she thought.  Pushing his jeans down to his knees, Hermione sighed at the sight of Charlie’s thick cock, and the pearl of pre-come on the tip.

 

Strangers, that was what they were, but Hermione wondered why Charlie seemed to know how to move against her, where to touch…

 

When he entered her, her legs wrapping about her waist, she stifled a cry.  No one knew they were still in the garden, and it seemed best that no one ever knew.

 

Charlie’s thrusts were powerfully hard, but Hermione did not mind.  The way he had stared at her, what his gaze conveyed, she knew that he had been restraining himself from taking her atop the birthday cake Molly had made for Harry.  His blue-eyed gaze had been foreplay enough.

 

Hermione’s fingernails raked down Charlie’s scarred back, and he grunted.  Clinging to her, Hermione reveled in the fact that he held her as if afraid to let her go, even though they were little more than strangers, she felt safe in his thick arms.  His body felt divine, a combination of hard muscle and gentle hands, scars and ginger hair, blue eyes and thick cock.

 

“Charlie!” she gasped, head thrown back, eyes slamming shut, toes curling…

 

He kissed her between gasps, his lips cool against her heated flesh.

 

Strangers no longer, Hermione wondered with a faint smirk on her lips, if they could be friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 739 words


	26. #26 - Teammates - Fred/Katie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #26 – Teammates. Even if they were not friends, they were teammates.

#26 - Teammates

* * *

“I’m sorry.”

 

Katie Bell refused to listen, turning her face toward the Hospital Wing door.  She still felt light headed from all the blood that had drained from her body via her nose, which had been mortifying in front of all the Gryffindors trying out for the team.

 

She did not care about receiving a Quaffle to the face, it happens.  Quidditch was a high risk, high contact sport.  However, eating a Blood Blisterpod causing blood to literally gush from her nose in streams of brilliant Gryffindor red—Katie was very putout.

 

Fred Weasley was standing at her bedside, hands in his pockets, his fringed ginger hair falling into his cerulean blue eyes.  He repeated his apology again, and all Katie could do was sigh.

 

When the weight on the bed shifted, Katie stiffened, turning her bruised face to Fred’s.

 

“I really am…” he whispered.

 

He was sitting in the curved bend of her legs, his left hand resting on the cot on the opposite side from where he sat, his arm angled over her thighs.

 

“…on purpose…” she muttered absently, just aware at how close Fred was to her, his face only inches away.

 

“What?” he purred in question.

 

Katie swallowed her nervousness.  Fred had always teased her, ever since they first got on the Gryffindor team.  If it wasn’t teasing her about how boyishly she played, it was flirting—how well she had begun to fill out her uniform, how lovely her hair looked streaming behind her when she flew.

 

“You gave me that foul nougat on purpose,” she clarified, leaning back into the pillows of the Hospital Wing cot, putting distance between herself and the boy leaning over her.

 

Fred grinned.  “Why would I do that?”

 

Katie frowned.  “Because you’ve always been this way…you don’t care about anyone’s feelings but your own.  George is the same way.  It doesn’t matter how many times you have to humiliate someone…you always get your laughs, in the end.”

 

Fred’s face flushed and he averted his eyes.

 

“Even in a match, you and George never take it seriously…”

 

Katie trailed, feeling suddenly dizzy again.  Madame Pomfrey had given her a potion, but it had yet to kick in.  She felt slightly nauseous and promptly closed her mouth.  Of course, Katie knew that if she were to vomit, it would have been a fitting retort to Fred Weasley’s nougat…

 

“I swear, Katie, I was only trying to help.  My idiot baby brother was off his game, and I thought that if I have you the other half of the nougat, it would stop the bleeding…” Fred attempted to explain.  “I would never hurt a teammate…or a friend.”

 

Katie snorted.  The year before, Katie had waited and waited for Fred, or even George, to ask her to the Yule Ball, but instead Fred asked Angelina.  Katie had gone to the Ball with McLaggen, a mistake, and only because no one had asked her before then.

 

“Why don’t you believe me?” Fred whispered.

 

Katie sighed again, crossing her arms before, her eyes moving to the boy sitting on the edge of her bed.

 

“Because half of what you say is unbelievable?” she muttered, her nausea gone.

 

Fred grinned.  “True.”

 

Katie smirked.  She had always liked Fred, ever since she was in First Year and him in Second.  She had been one of the few who could tell the Weasley twins apart; even Angelina was not so informed.  Even on the field, Katie knew which was Fred—by the way he shifted his weight to the back of his broom while flying, centering his weight better than George.  In the corridors, Fred shuffled his feet less than George…  Katie wondered if Fred ever knew of the way she watched him.  He was not merely a teammate to her.

 

“I really am sorry, Katie.  Just tell me how I can make it up to you…”

 

Katie’s heart fluttered, and once again she felt dizzy.  Fred moved closer, leaning over her to stare into her nearly bloodless face.  Unable to stop herself, attributing it to blood loss, she murmured her answer.

 

Fred grinned again, his ginger-fringed hair falling about his cheeks.  In the early evening light through the ward window, it looked like blood.

 

“Alright…” he whispered.

 

Katie’s eyes widened.  All she could see was Fred’s long eyelashes, and feel his warm lips moving over hers, coaxing her to move.  She returned his kiss, her mouth opening, and her eyes shutting.  It was not her first kiss, but her second.  Fred Weasley was no stranger to kissing, and Katie felt her cheeks begin to burn at the thought that he most likely had kissed Angelina….

 

Her arms wrapped about his neck, pulling him closer.  Angelina was her best friend, but Angelina could never know how much Katie had wanted Fred Weasley.  Fred hummed into her mouth as the kiss deepened.  Katie knew she was coming on too strong, she knew that Fred would most likely hate her later, but it did not matter.  She wanted to feel his lips upon her, her weight against her. 

 

Even if it meant that their friendship would change or end, Katie knew that she would, at least, be teammates with Fred Weasley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 827 words


	27. #27 - Parents - Molly-Lucius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #27 – Parents. She was a mother, he was a father, but lived not as one.

#27 - Parents

* * *

As far as nightmares go, both people sitting in Headmaster Dumbledore’s office were hoping that at some point they would wake up.

 

“And where is your wife?”

 

The blond gentleman in long black robes managed to meet the eye of the speaker.  Immediately a trademark Malfoy sneer was applied.

 

“Indisposed,” Lucius Malfoy answered smoothly.  “And where is your husband, madam?”

 

Molly Weasley sniffed disdainfully and turned her eyes to the empty chair behind the Headmaster’s desk, hoping that Albus would show up soon.  Of course, knowing Albus as Molly did, the old goat was probably watching her to see how she would react to being in the same room as Lucius Malfoy.

 

“Possibly raiding your home for Dark artefacts,” Molly muttered.

 

Surprisingly, Lucius chuckled.

 

After a few moments of silence, a silence that even the portraits behind them were partaking in, Molly sighed.  If only the Twins had not hexed Lucius Malfoy’s son, she would not be sitting within six feet of the odious blond man.

 

‘Years ago you did not think him so vile,’ said Molly’s inner voice.

 

“This has to be a bloody conspiracy!” Lucius growled, tapping his cane into the floor to rise, pacing behind Molly’s chair.

 

“And why do you say that?” Molly asked in clipped tones.

 

Lucius did not pause in his pacing.  She remembered he paced quite often when vexed, granted, that knowledge came from a time that she had nearly forgotten, except for seeing Lucius Malfoy again.

 

“He knows!” Lucius growled, pointing to the vacant chair behind the desk.  “He knows that we were…” he trailed; his voice dying, only chancing to gaze at Molly for a prolonged moment before pacing furiously again.

 

Molly grasped her handbag in her lap.

 

Years ago, years and years…  Molly remembered the boy who was Lucius Malfoy, four years younger than she, a pretty boy, intelligent, and for all appearances, kind.  He was in Slytherin and Molly had been a prefect in Gryffindor when Lucius was in his First Year.  The other boys in Slytherin teased Lucius because Abraxas Malfoy had squandered the family’s fortune in gambling debts.  The Malfoys were poorer than the Prewetts.

 

In a corridor on the third floor, Molly had found him, not crying, but hexing one of the helpless tapestries.  After convincing the small, pale boy, she meant him no harm, a strange relationship began, and lasted until Molly left Hogwarts.

 

“I cannot stand this!” Lucius barked, marching to the door to leave.  “Your sons will be punished for injuring Draco, mark my words, Milicent Prewett!”

 

Molly bristled at Lucius Malfoy’s tone, as well as the fact that he called her by the name she hated.  Molly was a shortened form of Milicent, a name she hated, and Lucius knew it.

 

Closing her eyes, she placed her face in her hands.

 

The Prewetts and the Malfoys were not so closely related, a match between the families would ensure Pureblood heirs.  The Prewetts had money but no estate, the Malfoys had no money but expansive lands.

 

As much as Molly loved Arthur, Lucius Malfoy would have been her betrothed had Abraxas Malfoy not aligned himself and his family with Tom Riddle.  To rub more salt into wounds, Lucius killed Gideon and Fabien, her beloved brothers.  Even now, with Molly trying not to cry into her hands, she had not had to face Lucius Malfoy on her own—Arthur had always been her buffer.

 

A new generation, a new war, Molly feared for her children, but not just her children.  She feared for Lucius’ son.  Would the boy end up just like his father?  Would the boy’s true heart be twisted and corrupted just as Lucius’ had been all those years ago?  Damn Abraxas Malfoy.

 

Lucius had been her friend, her most lovely friend when they were children.  Molly had loved him, and would have loved him if he had decided that family honour was not so important as self-respect.  Times were different now, Molly was a mother, Lucius a father, and it seemed that even with their children, they would eternally be in opposition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 681 words
> 
> Not a crack!fic, I hope. According into the legasp!Lexicon, Molly was born c.1950, while Lucius was born c.1954—plausible?


	28. #28 – Children - Draco/Hermione, Draco/Astoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #28 – Children, will children forgive the sins of their parents?

#28 – Children

* * *

He saw Potter and his brood across the Platform 9 ¾ and nodded when Potter’s emerald eyes met his.  Sifting through the throng of Weasleys, he finally laid eyes upon her, something deep in his chest was shuddering.  She looked well enough, but thinner, paler, than he remembered.  And then his eyes moved to the girl standing next to her mother.

 

“Scorpius, do you see that girl over there?” he asked softly, he hand reaching to grasp his son’s shoulder.

 

Scorpius glanced up at his father, nearly identical silver eyes meeting.  “Yes, papa?”

 

Draco Malfoy’s lips flickered into a smile.  “She will be your rival in your classes, most likely…  Watch her closely, and entertain no hatred or love toward her.”

 

Scorpius frowned, but turned his face to look at the girl.

 

Rose Weasley was her name, but she had no Weasley family traits.  She did not have ginger hair like her father, or blue eyes, not even freckles.  Instead, Rose Weasley looked very much like her mother.  Pale honey coloured eyes, dark blonde hair that was not nearly as riotous as her mother’s, and smooth, creamy white skin.  She was a thin girl, but it was already evident that as she grew into maturity, she would be a beautiful woman.

 

“She’s pretty, papa,” Scorpius said softly, turning his attention back to his father.

 

Draco winced at his son’s words, and leaning down, grasped his son’s shoulders.

 

“Understand me, son.  No hatred, no love.  You must not ever look on her as something to be loved!” Draco hissed.

 

Scorpius’ face was impassive, not letting the pain he felt from his father’s grasp surface in his face.

 

“That’s enough, husband,” Astoria hissed, reminding Draco that he was beginning to lose control.

 

Draco’s hands relaxed and he allowed himself to smile apologetically at his son.  “Do not forget, Scorpius.”

 

“Yes, papa.”

 

Moments later, the train was leaving, and Draco waved with his wife at their pale son.  Soon, the families were leaving the platform, and Draco watched as Ronald Weasley picked his son up in his arms, Hugo, Draco remembered.  Hugo looked like the Weasleys…

 

“She did not even look at you,” Astoria whispered.

 

Draco paid little mind to his wife as he watched Hermione Weasley walk down the platform with her family.

 

“You could have told Scorpius, Draco.  Now he will have to wonder about her, why you were so adamant that he—”

 

“That’s enough, Tori,” Draco whispered as her hand slipped under his arm, reverting to addressing his wife to her pet name he used at home.

 

Draco Malfoy loved his wife, but he also loved the woman walking down the platform.  Astoria had known that he loved Hermione Weasley, and that many years ago, the pretty witch had loved him in return.  Astoria Malfoy had not minded, her marriage to the Malfoy heir arranged, but with Scorpius, everything changed.  Astoria knew that Draco loved her, but considered her more a friend than a lover.

 

 _They_ had been lovers, Draco and Hermione.  They had been coworkers at the Ministry, lovers who could never marry, never let their relationship be known.  Hermione Granger, at that time, was forever connected to Ronald Weasley.  Draco Malfoy, at that time, was forever the son of a Death Eater.  But they were lovers nonetheless.

 

Astoria had only seen them once, and instead of being jealous, she thought it beautiful.  Astoria knew that Ronald Weasley or Harry Potter would never think of the lovers in the same way she did, how could they?  Potter and Weasley had monopolized Hermione for years.

 

She had seen Draco and Hermione Granger together in the Manor, thinking that they were safe from prying eyes, making love against the wall of the Malfoy family library, their voices ringing out, hands searching, lips dancing over bare skin, sweat rolling down their bodies as they moved.  The expression on their faces, the fire in their eyes, it had been beautiful.  Astoria had been engaged to Draco then…

 

The Malfoys waited to pass through the barrier, the Weasleys and Potters already gone.  It was then Astoria Malfoy gripped her husband tighter, worry lining her face.

 

“You should have told him that she was his sister, Draco.  Even if Rose does not know, Scorpius will surely figure it out…he is much brighter than for what you give him credit…” Astoria whispered, trailing.

 

Draco glanced to her with a sharp gleam in his eye.  “Enough, Tori.  He won’t know…the girl won’t know!”

 

Astoria said nothing more, and moved her eyes to her feet.  Rose had been born only shortly before Scorpius, sister and brother only days apart by different mothers.  By then Hermione Granger had pulled away from her one love, and that one love had become Astoria’s husband.

 

Their children…  Would they be forced to live through the sins of their parents so ignorantly?  Astoria knew her son.  Scorpius would be interested in the girl, and to sate his curiosity, speak to her.

 

Their children…  Could they forgive their parents for obscuring the truth?

 

Astoria felt like screaming, her husband was a fool, and so was his lover.  Astoria knew how the past could come back; she knew how secrets could destroy people.  Passing through the barrier, Astoria prayed that their children would forgive them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 881 words


	29. #29 - Birth - Draco/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #29 – Birth. He had forgotten everything he had read in the baby books.

#29 - Birth

* * *

Draco Malfoy had no clue as to what ‘Ben & Jerry’s’ was, nor what ‘Glastonberry’ was other than a town in Somerset.  All the same, he was scouring London for a pint of ice cream, hoping that he had enough Muggle money.

 

Apparently, he was told, that the flavour of ice cream was a limited edition, and that after five shops:  Glastonbury—the first place he tried—Brighton, Bristol, Oxford, and Salisbury, that he would have better luck in London.  Draco Malfoy kept looking at his watch, he had been gone from the Manor for an hour and half.

 

Finally, in London, he procured three pints—just to be on the safe side—of Ben & Jerry’s ‘Glastonberry’ vanilla ice cream with fudge brownie bits and raspberry swirl.  When he was safe from the notice of Muggles, he cast a stasis Charm to keep the ice cream cold before Apparating back to Wiltshire.

 

His mother had told him not long after his wife became pregnant that strange things happen to a woman’s body whilst carrying a child.  Besides the obvious physical aspects, Narcissa Malfoy used her pregnancy with Draco as an example.

 

“I had your father Portkeying back and forth to a cousin’s in Orleans for crème brûlée four times a week.  If it wasn’t that, it was saltwater taffy from the States.  Pregnant women, some, not all, get cravings for certain foods.  My mother craved coconut and pickles, together, and I hate both foods.”

 

Draco understood the ‘craving foods’ part, but he did not understand, and could not abide the mood swings in his wife.

 

It seemed that in her later months, his wife had grown exceptionally strong, and better skilled with aiming books at a point in the centre of his forehead.

 

Walking up the stairs of the Manor, Draco rubbed the goose egg sized knot that magic could not hide or heal.  It was only less than week until term, and he wondered if he would be able to present a normal face to his newborn child.

 

“Two hours!  I had almost decided I wanted something else!”

 

Hermione Malfoy Summoned a large spoon and immediately began eating her ice cream as soon as it was in her hands.  Sitting in bed, having been confined for the past week, Hermione did not care if bits of chocolate brownie accidentally fell upon the fine cotton sheets on her distended belly.

 

Draco kicked off his dragon hide boots and fell into bed beside his wife, watching her in the candlelight as she ate, quickly at first, then slowing to relish the taste.

 

Occasionally, Hermione offered Draco a bit, whom, considering himself lucky not to have an edge of a book sticking out of his skull, ate the sweet concoction with pleasure.  He was surprised, it was quite good.

 

When the first pint was gone, Hermione opened the second, eating slower, licking the bowl of the spoon clean with the tip of her tongue.  Draco watched, enthralled.  His wife glowed with an internal golden light, her skin, and her hair like something out of a hazy, lovely dream.  He scooted closer to her, fitting himself against her side.

 

“This will probably be the last time for late night quests for ice cream.  After the baby is born, no more fattening, sugary foods,” Hermione announced dropping the spoon in the second empty pint.

 

“As you wish.”

 

Hermione grasped the spoon, and with a huff, smacked the bowl of the spoon painfully against the knot on Draco’s forehead causing him to swear.

 

The last pint was left in stasis for the night.

 

And by the next night Hermione was cursing Draco Malfoy in three languages.

 

Draco could hear her voice from the foyer, as loud as it was.  Draco sat demurely on a bench along the entryway, watching Lucius pace maniacally as if it were _his_ child being born.  There were several more gentlemen waiting in the foyer as well—Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, Neville Longbottom—all Hermione’s friends.  All Draco had was his father and a very inebriated Blaise Zabini leaning against him, agreeing with every word Hermione screamed from the floors above.

 

Narcissa was upstairs with the Healers and Molly Weasley—a woman who had popped out enough children to know what to do in matters of childbirth.  Draco bristled at the thought of his Hermione turning into someone like Molly Weasley.  Perhaps two children would be enough, he thought.

 

There were more screams, and then silence.  Draco stiffened.

 

Only the night before, Draco had been on a quest for ice cream, not because Hermione threatened to throw a larger book at his head, but because Draco would do anything to see his wife happy.  But as the silence seemed to stretch on and on, the fear of losing her and the child, a fear he had had for many months, loomed over him.

 

“A boy!” a female voice that sounded very much like Narcissa Malfoy’s called down the stairs.

 

“A boy!” Harry Potter shouted.

 

The words were echoed through the Manor, and Draco felt claps on his shoulder, but he ignored them and as rose from the bench, upsetting a laughing Zabini, bushing past his nearly hysterical father, and ran for the stairs.  He had not heard a cry—he had not heard Hermione’s voice.

 

Bursting into the birthing room, Draco flew to his wife who was laughing tiredly at the sight of her disheveled husband.

 

The baby was small and pink, and as Draco held the little bald boy, he barely knew what to do.  Even with all the books Hermione had made him read about babies, he could not remember a single word.  All Draco Malfoy knew, as he stared down at his son, and then to his wife at his side, was love—pure, true love.

 

“Now it will be questing all over the world for the perfect toy instead of ice cream,” Hermione murmured as Draco pressed a kiss into her sweaty brow as together they stared at their child.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,004 words


	30. #30 - Death - Hermione/Cedric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #30. She asked the one question he never wanted to answer.

#30 - Death

* * *

 

 

“What is it like, when you die?”

 

He almost wanted to scream at her for asking such a question.  Screaming would accomplish nothing now.

 

“Cedric…” she whispered, her hand lifting to touch his cheek, pads of fingers smoothing through the unintended blond beard that had begun to grow on his jaw.  “What is it like?”

 

There was pleading in her voice, and as he cradled her upper body in his arms, he knew she wanted some sort of reassurance.  It sickened him.  He blinked slowly, his grey eyes beginning to mist.

 

“It hurts,” he whispered, his breath stale against her cheek, his throat raw from screaming.  “It’s cold.”

 

Her eyes bored into his, her hand moving to trace a thumb over his bottom lip.

 

“Were you scared?”

 

He sucked the tip of her grimy thumb between his lips, watching her perfect china doll mouth curl into a weary smile.  When her hand ran to his throat, to the tatters of his shirt to touch his chest, Cedric shuddered.

 

“Not for long…  I survived, remember?” he whispered, inhaling the scent of her hair, the faint fragrance of ginger still lingering in the caramel and black locks.  Black from blood…  “And so are you.”

 

She did not shake her head, she only sighed, her fingers brushing over the smooth planes of his chest to his frantically beating heart.

 

The cave floor was icy and damp, and he wished he could lift her somehow without hurting her.  He wished his wand was not in pieces somewhere in the dark, he wished he could summon the strength to Apparate them away to safety.  But she could not be moved so carelessly.

 

The Blasting Hex she took in his place had crushed her body, broken her ribs, bone slicing into soft internal organs.  Even as she breathed, he could hear the blood in her lungs.

 

He loved her, desperately, and there was nothing he could do for her except assuage her fears somehow, keep her talking until someone found them. 

 

“It hurts now.  It won’t last, will it?” she asked, her voice becoming thick.

 

When the coughing started, blood tinged her lips.

 

His teeth began to chatter, angry, afraid.

 

She had found him when everyone believed him dead.  She had protected him when the ones who had hidden him tried to punish her for defying the fates.  She had loved him when he believed there was no love to be had in the wide world.

 

And he?  Cedric kept her fears away, he held her close when her memories became nightmares, he kissed her when she delighted him, and he made love to her when the fury, the pain, and the madness became too much to bear.

 

“No, it won’t last long,” he whispered, as her eyes grew heavier.  “Neither will the cold.”

 

She smiled.  “Heaven?”

 

Cedric lowered his cheek to hers, whispering in her ear.  “I only saw a part of it.”

 

Her hand moved to his neck again, wrapping her arm about him to hold him near.  Cedric kissed her throat, feeling her discordant pulse under his lips.  Her heart beat for now, but not for long.  His tongue tasted the sweat on her skin, at her pulse point, the very flavour that he had come to long for and need to live.  Even at that moment, he wanted to taste more of her, taste her skin, taste her on the inside.  On the inside he could live forever, inside he could come to terms with every wrong done to him.  Inside of her, he knew how to breathe, how to live, and how to love.

 

Inside of her, he wanted to give her life.  He had had enough of death.

 

He wanted so many things.  He wanted to keep looking into her chocolate coloured eyes and believe that he was alive.  He wanted to give her a home, a family, material things, existential happiness, eternal love, and devotion.  He wanted to worship her until the end of time…

 

“I’m scared,” she whispered when his lips hovered over her own.  “Ced, I’m really scared.”

 

Grey eyes stared deep into brown eyes, and between them, there was only silence and resignation.

 

He kissed her mouth, tasting her blood, relishing it, imprinting it into his memory.  Her soft mouth was his undoing.

 

“It’s okay.  I’m here, Hermione…”

 

Cedric wished he could follow her as he went, he wished she could feel his tears upon her skin, hear his desperate bestial cries, feel how his body shook with passion.

 

He had hoped he could cheat death, for her sake, push back the cold and the pain, and live forever, in love.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 775 words


	31. #31 - Sunrise - Luna/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #31 – Sunrise. By sunrise the side-effects wane.

#31 - Sunrise

* * *

“You are simply the strangest woman I have ever known,” she said to me, slightly exasperated.

 

“Thanks,” was all I could mutter.

 

I wanted to tell her that I was not myself, that I had been bitten by a nargle arranging mistletoe wreaths for Christmas in two weeks.  I had miscalculated the effects of the bite, telling her how beautiful she was.  Of course, I always thought she was rather pretty, but even I know when to keep certain things to myself.

 

I almost wished to send her away, claiming I was not feeling quite myself, but the tears in her eyes, her quivering lips, kept me from doing perhaps the wise thing.

 

“I just cannot believe him!  Of all the reasons why we have to postpone the wedding…  A charity exhibition in Bulgaria?  He knew the date; he could have told them that he had other plans…  Gods, I hate Quidditch!”

 

I could empathize.  Ginny had told me that Ron was getting ‘cold feet.’  I had never heard the expression before, and advised a hot soak in mint water and a potent Pepper-Up.  Again, I got that ‘look’ from my best friend.  I laughed it off.

 

As it was, Hermione Granger had run all the way from the Burrow in the cold, in tears, and knowing that I was home, came to the house because she was in no state to Apparate.

 

I offered her a drink; something that dad had set aside for occasions of great emotional distress—Firewhiskey.

 

When I kissed her, she tasted heavily of alcohol.  I had partaken of none.

 

I would have to note the side effects of a nargle bite as soon as I was myself.

 

I pushed her down into the sofa, grasping her shoulders.  I have kissed other women before, but only to see what it was like.  Hermione, however, had softer lips than Ginny or Cho, and besides the taste of alcohol, I tasted a sweetness I could not identify.

 

She kissed me back.

 

I could barely contain myself, I felt drugged, or as if I had another case of wrasckspurt infestation—a very hard thing to cure.  I found myself pulling off her jumper, her brassiere, and then her skirt.

 

She did not speak, and did not resist.  It baffled me, at least, a part of me.  Definitely wrackspurts, combined with the bite on my wrist.

 

Her skin smelled like ginger, tasted like candied ginger.  It was an interesting array of textures, smells, and taste.  Even when her fingers touched my skin, the skin of her palm rubbing against my nipples, I could not ask her to stop, did not want to ask her to stop.

 

The wrackspurts convinced me that this was the right thing to do.  If Ronald Weasley did not know what a beautiful woman he had, it was not my fault that I would cherish her for a little while—until sunrise when I believed that aphrodisiac of the nargle bite would wane.  I wanted to kiss her, I wanted to lave her dusky pink nipples, and I wanted to run my fingers over the slippery flesh in her knickers.  Every sense was heightened.

 

I rubbed myself against her upraised thigh, one that I straddled on the couch.  At some point, I suppose that I had undressed for I could feel my core spreading juices along her bare leg.  It was a curiously wonderful sensation.  It reminded me of the time Neville took my virginity at school, just before I was taken away by the Death Eaters.  He had done what I was doing to Hermione—fucking her slick hole with three fingers.

 

Neville had a foul, and oddly arousing way with words.

 

I, however, said nothing, too busy sucking and nipping at her right nipple.

 

Glancing up to her face, I found her eyes closed, her mouth open to gasp.  Then, noticing the dark window, I could tell I had a few hours left before sunrise.  Somehow, it thrilled me.  Wickedly provocative thoughts whizzed through my head, thoughts that were only due to wrackspurts, at least, I thought so.

 

When my thumb jabbed at the swollen bundle of nerves, in the same place where my own were, she arched against my mouth and came.

 

“More…  More!” she cried, and I then wondered, pulling my mouth from her breasts if the wrackspurts had somehow infested her ear canals as they did mine, or was she merely drunk, or did she actually want this?

 

I gave her more, but she gave some as well, and when we had danced and moved on the sofa, I felt her breath against me.  A foul string of words came from my mouth when her tongue touched my centre, something that was totally out of character and disturbing.

 

I glanced to the window again.  Sunrise would come, surely.

 

It did not matter before long, her sweet tasting core on my face, her fingers pumping in and out of my body, my brain assaulted by wrackspurts and nargle venom running through my body.

 

I need to be more careful with mistletoe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 850 words


	32. #32 - Sunset - Remus/???

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #32 – Sunset. Sunset was just before moonrise, and that time was all they had.

#32 - Sunset

* * *

 

 

Seconds turned to minutes, and minutes were all they had.  With the sunset came the moonrise, and at that, the dream would end.

 

She kissed his chest, tongue lashing out to lave a flat nipple, fingernails scratching into slim hips, tearing over old and new scars.  He could only weave his fingers through her hair, lost on the sensation of being touched.  Leaning back into the wall of an empty bedroom in Grimmauld Place, a room that would soon be locked and warded, he ached.

 

It was just not his bones or muscles, it was the wolf inside that wished to tear the young woman apart, howl at the taste of her blood as he would come after defiling her body.  As it was, the wolf merely wanted to have her for a while longer, protect her smooth golden skin, lick at her most fragrant points, and mount her to take her as a mate.

 

For a while yet, he was still just a man.  As man, he grunted when her mouth found his cock, taking the straining length between her lips.  He was overwhelmed, moon time made every touch, every taste, every scent so much more than the human mind could comprehend.

 

Her mouth moved from his cock to whisper his name.  He knew what she wanted, and only at moon time would he ever consider giving it to her.  The wolf wanted her though the man was hesitant and afraid.

 

Grasping her hair, so soft, so warm between his long fingers, he pulled her to her feet, tasting toffee and cream on her tongue.  He devoured her mouth, teeth cutting into her lip and tongue.  Blood was much better than the sweets she had eaten earlier in the day.

 

Body moving in a wolfish prowl, faster than she, a mere human, could counteract, he had her face pushed into the unbreakable glass of the only window in the room.  Her palms pressed against the panes, her knees moving to rest upon the small battered and initialed trunk underneath the sill.  It was still light outside, but the light was failing.  He would have to be fast, brutal, if he wanted her out of the room before he changed.  Granted, he had taken his potion, but even that did not guarantee that he would not defile her, kill her.

 

He entered her without preamble, eliciting the sweetest scream.  She still had her summery dress on, but he did not rip it as he had rended much of her wardrobe.  The pretty, tiny red flower print pleased him.  It looked like blood droplets.

 

With one hand, he held her hair, the other pushing up the skirt of her dress to her waist, fingers biting into the soft skin of her hip.  She had not been wearing knickers.

 

Every thrust was to the bottom of her pussy, to the root of his cock.  The wet slap of his sac against her clit pleased him as well.  Her back was arched beautifully, her screams eloquent, the tightness of her walls around him heavenly.

 

The sun was setting, and he could feel his eyes beginning to change, the colour of her dress brighter, the sweat running down the side of her face clear.  When the sense of smell was amplified, he knew he had perhaps five minutes to fill her with his come and get her out before the change was upon him.

 

Oh, how he wished he could have her all night.  He wished she was like him, wild, powerful, feral.  He had considered it, biting her, marking her, and making her his mate.  However, those illogical thoughts only came when he knew he was too close.

 

She would make a regal were-bitch.  A rich toffee coloured coat, hot golden eyes, and a cleverly constructed mind.  They could run together, free, romping…

 

“Gods!” he ground out, the thought of mating her under a full moon too much.

 

The release was painfully satisfying, but already the moon was beginning to rise.  He mumbled something, stumbling back from her, and her face turned to glance up out of the window. 

 

He kissed her, even as his seed trickled along her thighs.  He kissed her gently and then begged her to go.

 

She would linger at the door as she pulled it closed behind her.  He could only collapse on the floor, naked, cock spent, mouth open to gasp for breath.  He could feel her watching as the door was only just open a crack.  He knew she would watch the first part of his transformation, listening to the cracking bones, the howls, and watch, licking her lips when the fur began to replace bare skin.

 

It was when he would look to the door, wishing to tear it open and have her, that she would close it, a predatory mien in her eyes and face.

 

Sunset was complete and he paced the warded room, bathed in moonlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 823 words


	33. #33 - Too Much - Ron/Pansy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #33 – Too Much. It had been too much for the both of them.  
> From the Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man series.

#33 - Too Much

* * *

 

 

Ron Weasley tried not to spill his drink all over his nice dark blue suit as he wove through the group assembled in the small gallery space somewhere down a dark street in New York City.  He could not see for all the cigarette smoke, the people, and the lack of light in the cellar-like space.  There were lights pointed to the walls, upon the paintings all had assembled to see.  The light was not bright, and some of the light actually came from the paintings people clustered around and gazed upon with awe.

 

Ron carried his drink over the heads of most of the indistinct figures until he slowly made his way to the crowning jewel of Pansy Parkinson’s show ‘At the End of the World.’  He knew he could find his lover speaking with her American friends and Wizarding art critics trying to get an edge on how Pansy managed to reveal painting after stupendous painting to the world.

 

Pansy stood next to her painting while feigning her smiles, as people seemed to crush in upon her petite form.  Ron watched over the heads of most, waiting for the telltale sign that Pansy would need rescuing.  The sign was very simple to Ron, having known her for years—the deep line between dark brows.  When that line appeared, Ron knew that Pansy was about to lose her composure, and the last thing she needed was to have an episode before the critics.

 

“Can you tell us the Charm you used to have the faces of the Fates change with every viewer.  As I look at it, I see the face of my mother, in three states in time as my version of the Fates…” one short, male American critic asked, his Muggle voice recorder moving toward Pansy.

 

The line appeared and Ron sighed, tipping his gin and tonic to spill down the back of the critic.

 

“I am so sorry!” Ron gushed, his deep voice booming over the sound of the conversations all around, startling everyone to silence.  “Sir, perhaps if you will just head to the lavatories…” he began, but did not need to go further as the mortified critic quickly extracted himself from Pansy’s line of sight.

 

The other critics seemed to know that Ron’s ‘accidental’ spill meant the end of the evening’s questions to the artist, and dispersed.

 

Pansy leaned back into the wall next to her painting, her chin falling to her chest.  Her short bobbed, ebony hair obscured her delicately made up mask of professionalism, and Ron knew that he needed to take his lovely Pansy home—soon.

 

Pansy wore a short black cocktail dress, her arms bare, and as Ron Vanished the remains of his glass wandlessly, he took her into his arms.

 

“Too much, Ron, it is too much,” she whispered into his chest.

 

Ron knew she was not just meaning the gallery opening, but the paintings on the walls.  They were Pansy’s paintings, but not her subjects.  The painting before him was the vision Hermione Granger had had at the end of time, of the Fates, of Hermione’s journey.  The other paintings were taken from Draco Malfoy, Charlie, and everyone living who had been near Harry Potter and his madness.  Only Pansy and Ron knew the significance of Hermione’s vision at the end of time, and Draco’s vision of a future when humanity would be wheedled down to almost nothing.

 

Pansy was empathic, and to see the paintings together and feel the reaction of the viewer was too much for her.  Other shows had been similar, but this show, chronicling the events of over a year before, in a place far removed from a trendy cellar gallery in New York City was taking a toll on Ron’s lover. 

 

There was too much innocent wonderment where there should have been reverence and grief.

 

Pansy had listened to Hermione’s recounting when Hermione had lived in New York the year previous.  Pansy had listened to Draco’s recounting at the wedding, as well as Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy’s recounting of the attack on Malfoy Manor.  From all of those people, Pansy had painted as if possessed to give the last, dark time of Harry Potter’s existence a kinder, more artistic revue of what would _be_ the bluntness of history.  However, as Ron slowly walked Pansy toward the exit of the gallery, fending off questions from Pansy’s ‘artsy’ friends, and richer admirers, Ron knew that Pansy needed to get away.

 

It was not just the crowd of people crushing in on her, it was not just their reactions, it was the lack of true perspective the viewers had.

 

Into the cool night air of the city, Ron held her trembling body tight against his even as she whispered to him.

 

“I cannot keep doing this—feeling this, Ron, it is too much.”

 

He kissed her forehead.  Pansy was brilliant in every way and that was part of why he loved her.  What was too much for her was the weight of her talent and the truth she saw through her eyes and wrought with her own hands.

 

Ron suggested that he take her home, but Pansy refused.  He tilted her face to his in the darkness of a Soho alley, his thumb running between her brows to sooth away the line that had formed there.

 

“But with you, only with you at my side, it is never too much,” she whispered into his silk tie.  “The truth is almost too much, but it must be borne by people like me who render it for all to see.”

 

Ron sighed and tried to smile so her dark eyes could see.

 

Ron was not an artist, he was an F.O.I.L. agent, and he saw the truth without the beautiful colours and delicate treatment.  For Ron, the colourless, ugly truth _was_ too much, but for Pansy who saw and felt everything with such deep empathy, he could only try to understand the depth of her inner torment though she be so far removed from the devastation his old friend had inflicted.

 

“What should we do, my dove?  Go back in?  Go home?”

 

Pansy’s arms snaked upward to wrap about his neck.

 

“I need to make this better, Ron, I need to make it right,” she whispered.

 

She kissed the end of his chin, the closest part of his face to her lips.

 

“I need to paint one last work, the last work that will set everything toward the truth of the lives of the ones we love…” she trailed.

 

Ron did not understand.

 

“I need to paint _his_ death.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,101 words


	34. #34 - Not Enough - Scorpius/Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #34 – Not Enough. It was never enough to simply live in his head.

#34 - Not Enough

* * *

 

 

 

It was not enough that she would stare at him from across the Great Hall.  It was not enough that they would have to spend Seven Years in shared classes, always set beside each other in the back row.  It was not enough that they were tied in term finals every year, or that they both earned the same number of O.W.L.s.  It was not enough that she was beautiful and intelligent, and looked wonderful in silver and green.

 

It was not enough that she drove him mad, intentionally.  Every time he tried to confront her, she would somehow find a way to escape or make him lose his train of thought.

 

Scorpius Malfoy did not know what to do about Rose Weasley.

 

“Have you tried something a bit more forward?”

 

Scorpius’ grandfather was always a strange man.  He knew well enough what his grandfather had done before he was born, he knew that Grandfather had been a Death Eater.  It was not something to be proud of, and it was never discussed.  Pure-blood pride was something as passé as Viktor Krum action figures or Firebolt brooms.  Scorpius was an aberrant, the first Malfoy Sorted into Gryffindor, and though it had caused his Grandfather to sulk and his father to maintain an apoplectic rage during his First Year; Scorpius was still a Malfoy.  When Malfoy men had problems, especially with other people, it seemed to be tradition to consult the patriarch of the family and start hatching a devious plot.

 

“Such as?” Scorpius asked.

 

It was Christmas holidays, his Seventh Year.  He was Head Boy, but Rose Weasley had refused to be Head Girl when it was offered to her.  He had almost counted on her sharing a Common Room with him, and the first term was a long string of disappointments, sharing the room with a Hufflepuff Head Girl instead.

 

“Pushing her in the mud?”

 

Scorpius scowled, an expression worthy of his surname.  “I’m not eight years old, Grandfather…”

 

Sitting on his grandfather’s old Chesterfield in the bothy that his grandparents shared on the Malfoy Estate, Scorpius had half a mind to inquire of Grandmother if Grandfather was suffering from an early onset of dementia.

 

“Kick her off her broom, she’s Slytherin’s Seeker, you’re Gryffindor’s Seeker, it could happen…”

 

Scorpius rolled his grey eyes, arms along the back of the couch; long and lean body sprawled sloppily over the green leather.

 

“I don’t want to kill her, Grandfather…” he muttered.

 

“Then what is it you _do_ want, Scorpius?” his Grandfather asked from his winged back chair by the fire, wolfhounds sleeping at his foot, a brandy snifter poised in his hand.

 

Scorpius said nothing for a long moment, staring into the raging fire.

 

He wanted to get under Rose Weasley’s skin, make her as mad as he felt half the time.  He wanted her to feel that strangling sensation he felt when their hands brushed, reaching for ingredients in N.E.W.T. level Potions.  He wanted to pull her into the niche near the Head’s Common Room and snog her senseless.  He wanted to shove his cock…

 

“I want her to acknowledge me.  I want her to own up to the fact that I know she’s staring at me in the Great Hall when she thinks I’m not looking…”

 

His grandfather chuckled.  “She must think _something_ of you then.”

 

Scorpius rubbed his eyes, leaning forward on the couch, his shaggy silvery blond hair falling into his face.  He was handsome, he knew.  He had girls from even First Year sending him love letters, chocolates at Valentine’s Day, love potions, and all sorts of little trinkets and tokens.  It was from every House, even Slytherin, but never from Rose Weasley.

 

“Then corner her, kiss her, do whatever it is you children do nowadays.”

 

Scorpius straightened, staring incredulously at his grandfather.  “You can’t be serious,” Scorpius breathed.

 

His father would murder him.  Touching a Weasley was akin to scuffing the parquet floors in the foyer of the Manor—a mortal sin.

 

“From what I hear, she is quite intelligent, capable, and quite Slytherin…  A surprise, since her parents are the epitome of the House you were Sorted into, Scorpius,” his grandfather mused before sipping on his brandy.

 

“I can imagine what Father would say—half-blood, spawn of busy haired know-it-alls and weasel kings.”

 

Lucius chuckled.  “All the same, she made the mistake in rousing the interest of a Malfoy.”

 

Scorpius could not help but smile at his grandfather.

 

“Destroy her or bed her, or both, Scorpius.”

 

The smile turned into a gape.  What sort of advice was that?

 

It was not enough that Rose Weasley had his head spinning on his neck.  It was not enough that she was the object of desire in his wet dreams, but now, his grandfather was advising that Scorpius actually do what he fantasized about in his waking and sleeping mind.

 

It was too much, but when Scorpius thought about it logically, it was not enough to suffer for something or someone who did not know what it was like to be obsessed over and love by a Malfoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 852 words


	35. #35 - Sixth Sense - Ginny/Tom Riddle (Voldemort)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #35 - Sixth Sense - She was his toy, his experiment, and his outlet.

#35 - Sixth Sense

* * *

 

 

There was a type of sixth sense shared between them, one that let her knew exactly what he wanted from her, and one that would tell him that she did not want to keep doing this…

 

Most of her inner wishes and desires were never met, but his—his wishes and desire were what she was there to fulfill.  When she heard his smooth voice slithering through her mind, she had to comply.  When he told her to lie very still, she did.

 

She was his toy, his experiment, and his outlet.  As she lay very still, the cold air making the goose pimples rise on her milky skin, she waited, eyes open for whatever it was he wanted to do.

 

The hiss of a voice speaking serpentine words made her lips quiver.  She did not understand Parseltongue, but there was something about it that made her insides twitch and squirm pleasantly.  It had always been that way, from the first time she heard him speak it.

 

His cool fingers ran along the inside of her left knee, trailing upward to her thigh.

 

‘So beautiful,’ he would whisper into her mind.

 

As she grew older, he seemed pleased by the way her body filled out, her bones lengthened.  He was delighted at how her scent tasted, his tongue lashing out to taste the air around her throat, her breasts, her cunt. 

 

Lying on the hard stone dais, she tried her best not to move as his finger slipped between her thighs to the dark auburn curls.

 

‘I have been waiting a long time for this…’

 

She knew.  She had been waiting years for her body to catch up with her desires and dreams.  She had been hiding her need, her passion from everyone, just for this very moment.

 

His dark eyes stared down into her face, a trace of red in those depths.  He only ever showed her his most handsome face, though she knew very well what was hidden underneath.

 

‘I want this.’

 

She was not sure if she had said it or he.  His long, cold fingers slipped inside her body, stretching and probing.  She knew she winced, and the expression delighted him.  She was wet, and she was bleeding.  She had saved herself for that very moment.

 

His mouth opened to speak, but in riddles and whispered phrases foreign to her ears, something that was not Parseltongue.  He was collecting her virginal blood.

 

‘You grant me a boon.”

 

When he crawls over her body, like a pale and perfect god, he is gentle with her, spreading her wide, nostrils flaring to take in the scent of her.

 

Kiss me.

 

He does, tongue slipping into her mouth as his cock brushes and slips against her most tender of flesh.

 

Fill me.

 

He does, and she wonders if his magnanimity will last.  The pain of his penetration sends her eyes up into her skull as his mouth pulls away, long tongue lapping at her mouth, her face, and her open eyes.

 

The tearing sensation between her thighs makes her body rigid, more so than ever, and the hand clutching her breast nearly equals the pain, nails digging into her skin.

 

He moves at last, a brutal ramming, smearing blood between their bodies.

 

‘I want to bathe in it,’ he whispers into her mind.

 

She wants to touch him, but she knows he would never allow it.  Instead, she contents herself with his harsh touch and attentions.  He swells and moves inside her, breaching past more than her maidenhead.  He is deep inside her, implanting himself, branding his shattered soul into her viscera.

 

Their shared sixth sense intensifies and she can hear the vaguest of his thoughts.  He wants to rip her open, eat her whole.  He wants to make her remember whom she belonged to, from the very start.

 

She screams aloud, rewarded with a sharp strike across the face for impertinence.  She feels too full, too much, and too quickly.  It is a pain that required death, of a sort.  He does not make a sound as he lifts her legs to wrap about his waist, pressing in deeper so that she can feel him trying to tear into her womb.

 

Perhaps it had been a mistake to come, she thought.

 

‘No mistake, Ginerva.’

 

No, it was not a mistake.

 

‘Touch me.’

 

A wish granted, her arms wrap about his neck, and he kisses her again, softer this time, almost lovingly.  She touches the scaly softness of his hairless chest, the expanse of his back, pulling herself against him, upward so that each thrust is deeper, more terrible.

 

The scent of her blood exhilarates her, as it does him, and he holds her close, her body miniscule compared to his.  He had promised her pain and pleasure, and the rasp of his skin against her nubbin brings just that.

 

They whisper together without saying a word.  He knew what she wanted, and she knew what he planned to do.

 

She could show no fear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 836 works


	36. #36 - Smell - Fenrir-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #36 – Smell. He was in love with her scent.

#36 - Smell

* * *

 

 

Fenrir Greyback was in love, or as close to it as he could be.

 

He loved the way young girls smelled, no bloody smell of breached maidenheads, no cologne smell of young men on their skin, just sweet perfumes of youth and innocence.  This was how the Weasley girl smelled.

 

He chased her from the castle after mauling her brother, he chased her into the trees, lamenting that there was no full moon that night.  Her scent, her fear, it was like dropping breadcrumbs in the wake of a fleeing girl and he followed.

 

He wanted to taste her.

 

It was not just the girl’s fear or the chase that made his blood rise; it was how beautiful the girl looked in the light of curse fire.  She had the clearest blue eyes he could ever remember seeing, and best of all, her long hair reminded him of waves of lapping blood about her thin shoulders.

 

He was not sure what her name was, but he knew she was a Weasley.

 

Into the trees she ran, her legs pumping as hard as they could to propel her faster into the darkness.  He knew that she was stumbling over roots in the dark.  Even the light of the Dark Mark in the sky barely penetrated the canopy of the trees.  But he could see, oh yes, he could see her hair in the darkness, and the lovely ivory column of her throat.

 

If it had been a full moon, he would not prolong the chase, and sink his teeth into that creamy throat.  He would drink her body dry, perhaps, or, if she proved strong, he would keep her in his pack, a bitch to be used and mated.  It had been a long time since he had had a bitch in his pack worthy of being a mate to the alpha.

 

She was young, almost too young, but he had been turned younger.

 

He could smell her breath as her exertions had turned into gasping breaths.  She smelled like pumpkin juice and pastries.  He wondered if he could taste it in her mouth when he would kiss her.

 

A tiny yelp alit the air, and he froze, his keen eyes catching sight of flying crimson hair.  He could smell blood, not much, possibly from a scrape from her tumble down a low embankment.  The scent was metallic with sweeter chords beneath the main scent.

 

He knew all about the science of scent.  Notes composed a fragrance, chords composed a harmony of scent, and together a perfume is produced.  The Weasley girl had the best fragrance he had smelled in a long time.

 

He was shadowing her as she continued to run, unaware that he was so near that he could easily snatch her up in his arms, and unaware that she was running back toward the castle in a wide sweeping arc through the trees.

 

He would have to take her before she appeared on the grounds again.

 

Her exhales came as sobs as her running began to slow, sweat beginning to run down the side of her angelic face.  Her sweat smelled of ylang-ylang and musk, the lower notes were more exotic scents that his mind had forgotten.

 

He wanted her.

 

Such a lovely scent surely had a wonderful taste.  He would lick her skin before tasting her flesh and sipping on her blood.  He would tear at her flawless skin and look inside.  He would keep her alive and watch her turn.  And at full moon, he would breach her maidenhead and claim her.

 

His body itched with arousal as he darted from behind one tree to the other, moving to cut the girl off before she could reach the grounds.  He would take her and keep her, hide her from his pack mates, and from the Dark Lord.  He would make her his only one…

 

“Ginny!” a voice shouted from near the tree line.

 

He sniffed the air.  It was a male, a boy not much older than the girl whose name he now knew.  Ginny…

 

The girl, Ginny, suddenly changed direction in her running, and he growled as before he could move, the girl fell into the boy’s arms, sobbing. 

 

He did not know who the boy was, a gangling, brown haired boy, but he wanted to kill him.

 

Ginny Weasley…  He would remember that name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 730 words


	37. #37 – Sound - Charlie/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #37 – Sound. ‘I see a red door, and I want it painted black.’  
> Inspiration for 'Whom the Gods Would Destroy'.

#37 – Sound

* * *

 

 

I did not believe her, not at first.

 

She heard music when there should not be any.  We had not seen another living person for two months, and I thought that Hermione Granger was finally beginning to crack up.

 

“It is like…a sitar and some kind of electric guitar…” she said when I asked her to explain it to me.

 

I would listen, cup my hands over my ears and listen, but I heard nothing.

 

We had left London, there was no one left alive.  We went to Birmingham, Bristol, Liverpool, Manchester, Glasgow, and so many other places—there was no one.  No Muggles, no wizards, none of Hermione’s electricity, and far too much magic.  But what there was…was an overabundance of Inferi.  We knew someone had to be alive, someone who was controlling the Inferi.

 

Hermione called them ‘zombies.’

 

We slept in shifts at night, a few hours a piece.  We moved from place to place, searching for someone alive, or the dark wizard that had cursed the dead to move.  After two months, we found nothing.

 

Inferi were damn near impossible to stop.  You cannot kill them; of course, you have to destroy them completely.  As far as we can tell, they have only one motive:  kill everything.  Human and beast.

 

“There!  Listen, Charlie!”

 

We were high atop Bridgewater Place in Leeds, having climbed high to see a possible route out of the city or any survivors.  For some reason Apparition has become difficult in some places, Leeds for instance.  Inferi roamed the streets at night, but less during the day.  We sat with what Hermione called ‘binoculars,’ searching the city.

 

I could hear only the wind, and shrugged at Hermione.  She huffed.

 

In the two months, Hermione and I have become close.  Perhaps it is only because we have been forced to become close due to the circumstances.  We often find solace in each other, and I have actually grown to look forward to the moments when we can safely make love without the fear of Inferi bursting in through the doors and windows.  They always find us; they always find a way to break through the defenses to get to us…

 

I turn my head to look east, and then, I hear it.

 

It is a song, sitar, and a drum.  But it is not a sound like one would expect hearing in the wind, high above the ground.

 

“You hear it?” Hermione asks, rising from her spot on the roof to come to my side near the edge of the building.

 

I nod, cupping my hand over my ear.

 

Hermione slips her arms about my chest and together we stumble away from the edge.  I can still hear a few strains of music as she kisses me as we fall to the roof, kneeling before each other.  The wind whips her hair and ruffles mine, but it doesn’t matter.  She tastes like the cold bottled tea we had found that morning…

 

“Charlie?” she asks as we pull away.

 

“Hm?”

 

I brush a few strands of her unruly hair behind her ear, holding her face in my hands.

 

“It is a Muggle song…at least the melody is…”

 

She is pale, but her amber eyes are wide.

 

“I think it is a Muggle rock song.  And it is not a recording.”

 

I did not know much about Muggle rock music.

 

“’Paint it, Black’ by The Rolling Stones.”

 

I frown.  “And what does that mean?”

 

She shakes her head, her whole body shivering, and not from the wind.  “I don’t know.”

 

Hermione hugs me again, burying her face into my dragon hide jerkin, her fingers moving to my hair, which has grown long after the months we have run.  She hums the melody into my chest, and I, in turn, shiver.

 

It is an eerie sound, Hermione’s voice, and the faint sound of accompanying music on the wind.  It frightens me.

 

What has happened to our world?

 

All I have is Hermione, a girl I barely knew before now, and for some reason we have been thrown together into this madness…

 

For the rest of the day, we hear the song as we move along the empty streets of Leeds, heading southeast.  We do not see any Inferi, and we find a safe place to sleep for the night.  It rains soon after we find an old inn outside the city, securing the windows and doors and bedding down in the best room.

 

Hermione is happy I can hear the music, and she smiles at me when I kiss her bare belly.  I wonder if the world was still inhabited by the living, if we would have found each other as we had…  I wonder if I would have ever been able to taste Hermione on my tongue or hear her voice when she cried my name.

 

She is so beautiful riding me, her body moving over mine, her hot centre taking my cock as if it had been made only to take me…  Her skin is like satin, her smile like the sun, and when I fill her with my seed, I forget that we are the only two people left alive…

 

And then I hear the music again.  No walls can keep it out, and as she lies against me, panting, our sweat cold between us, we listen to the music, haunting, strange, and disconcerting.

 

“’I see a red door, and I want it painted, black…’” she whispers.

 

Somehow I understand.

 

I was never the smartest Weasley child, but somehow I understand.

 

The music is either a shared delusion, or it is a message or sign.

 

The music fades under the violent patter of rain and the distant shrieks of the Inferi, and we hold each other in the dark, lost without each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 968 words


	38. #38 - Touch - Cedric-Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #38 – Touch. She liked his touch.

#38 - Touch

* * *

 

 

His hand had touched hers while reaching for the same book--Goldman’s ‘Famous Sphinx Riddles.’  She automatically drew away, her face flushing hotly, her mouth open ready to apologize.  However, he grasped the thick spine, and pulled it down from the shelf, his handsome face only slightly pink, and passed it to her.

 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he muttered, his grey eyes flashing in the lamplight of the Library.

 

Hermione Granger took the red covered book and hugged it close to her chest.

 

“Um…is Potter doing alright?” he asked, crossing his arms before his chest, leaning his left shoulder into the shelves.

 

Hermione took a shaking breath and met Cedric Diggory’s eyes.  She had never had occasion to speak to the older boy before.  He was a prefect, he was in a different House, and had little dealings with Gryffindors.  Hermione wondered if Cedric even knew her name.

 

“He’s doing alright, considering…” she said softly.

 

Cedric nodded, his shaggy tawny locks falling about his handsome face.

 

The First Task was over and Christmas was soon approaching.  Hermione wondered, idly, if Cedric Diggory was going to take Cho Chang to the Yule Ball.  She also wondered if Viktor Krum was still sitting at her table behind the stacks near a far, and secluded corner of the Library.  The Bulgarian Tri-Wizard Champion had been haunting her steps during her time in the library, and Hermione was not exactly sure what to make of it.

 

“Yeah, considering…  Listen, I just want to let you know that I’m okay with Potter.  I know most people have been saying a lot of things…but the Professors are convinced there’s something…something…behind it all,” Cedric continued, leaning toward her, whispering softly.

 

Hermione shivered at his nearness.  His breath ticked the hair that fell about her throat, and she could smell pumpkin juice on his breath.

 

Hermione nodded dumbly, her eyes falling to the prefect badge on the chest of his robes.

 

“But if he’s trying his best…I’m going to try to do better…”

 

Hermione’s eyes flicked up to Cedric’s and she realised how close he was, leaning over her.  Cedric smiled down at her, he was quite a bit taller, and Hermione felt as if his presence was about to swallow her whole.

 

“Are you going to check that book out?” he asked softly, his eyes moving to the book in her arms.

 

“No…I was just going to look something up…I…” she stuttered, flushing redder.

 

His hand moved, and she stiffened as he cupped her cheek.  Hermione nearly jumped away, by instinct, however, when his lips pressed against her forehead, just between her brows, Hermione froze…

 

Cedric’s lips were cool, but the kiss suffused warmth through her body, beginning between her brows and to her toes.

 

Even when he pulled away, his hand still cupping her cheek, Hermione could still feel his lips upon her brow.  With a gentle swipe of the pad of his thumb over her cheekbone, Cedric pulled his hand away.

 

“I’ll find it later…” he whispered, his face near hers.

 

Hermione could only stare at him, unsure of what to think of the boy.

 

Cedric smiled again, and began to turn to walk down the aisle.  However, Hermione’s hand snaked out, grasping his wrist.  She blinked, surprised that she had moved so quickly, and had acted purely on instinct.  It was Cedric’s turn to appear puzzled, but turned back to Hermione, his right hand molding over hers, but not to pull himself free, but to hold her small hand in his.

 

“You…you…can have it,” she whispered, stretching out to pass the book to Cedric, the spine resting against his chest.

 

Hermione was flustered, a state of existence she did not particularly enjoy.

 

She released him, and slipped her hand away.  Cedric sighed softly and took the book, glancing at the cover and the gold embossed sphinx on the cover.  Tucking the book under his right arm, he leveled his gaze at her face again.

 

“Hermione Granger…” he whispered, not in address or in a manner in which to identify her by her name.  He whispered her name, as if considering the aesthetic quality of every syllable, his grey eyes moving over her face, her amber eyes, her dark brow, her china-doll lips.  It was not scrutiny, and it was not adoration.  It was a consideration that made Hermione feel as if his eyes were touching every part of her face with a smooth brush of calloused fingertips.

 

“Thanks…” he whispered, and began to move again, however only to hesitate, his hand moving toward her again.  Thinking better of it, Cedric grinned, and winked instead.  With a determined turn, Cedric walked down the aisle and away from Hermione, his robes fluttering behind him, his luxurious tawny hair bouncing with every wide step.

 

Hermione’s hands itched, and her breath was thick.  It had suddenly become hard to breathe.  Rubbing her palms into her robes, she held her breath for a moment, counting to ten…

 

How awkward, she thought to herself, taking a cleansing breath, and how strange...

 

She could feel his touch, even as she walked back to her table, trying to ignore Viktor Krum’s pointed gaze, as well as the girls hiding near the wall, admiring from a distance.  She tried to ignore the tingling she felt between her brows, or on her cheek.  She tried to ignore the lingering warmth of Cedric Diggory’s hand upon her hand.  It seemed that every place he had touched burned. 

 

Hermione liked his touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 915 words


	39. #39 - Taste - Hermione/Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #39 – Taste. Severus tasted like anise drops.  
> The inspiration for 'Damnation of Memory.'

#39 - Taste

 

* * *

 

Severus tasted like anise drops.

 

He pushed her away as if to toss her as far away from him as possible.  The disgust written on his face did not deter her, however, she was far too happy to ever be put off her joy.

 

When Hermione’s back hit the wall and the Black family tapestry, she let out a sigh.  Severus Snape, a man Harry had said died five years earlier in the Shrieking Shack was standing in the sitting room of Number 12 Grimmauld Place.  He was not nearly as pale as she remembered, but his clothing, complete with the fluttering robes were exactly how she pictured them to be in her memories.

 

“How dare you!” he bellowed, taking a step back from her, his black eyes glittering.

 

Hermione smirked, he was trying to decipher something about her, and she could feel a prodding between her eyes.  When he came back with nothing, his eyes began to study her body.

 

Hermione was dressed in a fine gown of dark red taffeta, expensive heels and a brocade bolero jacket.  Her hair was coiffed with ruby coloured pins and her face wore only a pale red eye shadow and lipstick.  She had just returned from the opera with Percy—house sitting Grimmauld Place for Harry and Ginny for the autumn while they vacationed in Greece after their wedding.  What a shock it had been to find Severus Snape in the sitting room…

 

Composing herself, Hermione straightened.  “I might say the same of you, sir, coming into people’s homes uninvited,” she said stiffly, still tasting anise on the tip of her tongue.  She had always loved anise…

 

Severus also straightened, crossing his arms before his chest, his face darkening with anger.

 

“And who are you, young lady?”

 

Hermione laughed, unable to contain herself.  Five years was not so long a time.  She had changed, surely, but Severus, strangely, had not seemed to age at all.

 

“You are supposed to be dead, sir,” she answered by way of not answering.

 

Severus’ face contorted briefly and he let his arms fall to his sides.

 

“But it seems you are not…” she whispered.

 

He seemed more substantial than she remembered, filling his robes with a true form, and not like the wraithlike body she remembered.

 

“You know me?”

 

She nodded, and pushed off the tapestry.  Severus did not flinch when Hermione stepped near, her eyes studying his face, his hands, the only two uncovered parts of him she could see.

 

“I know you quite well, but it seems you do not know me.”

 

Severus finally sighed to breathe when Hermione stepped away from him.

 

“Hermione Granger?” she asked an eyebrow rising in anticipation of some nasty rebuke for kissing him.

 

Severus said nothing.  It was clear by his sour expression, which Hermione had learned years before, had varying degrees of expression, that he did not have a clue as to who she was…

 

Hermione leaned toward him again, brows furrowing, and touched his face as she moved to the tips of her toes.  He felt real and alive, but still Hermione was puzzled.  Bringing her face close, she sniffed at his jaw, his neck.  She could smell anise, and potions fumes.  It was as if he had stepped through some crack in time from eight years before to that very moment.

 

“You know me well enough to kiss me?” he asked, his voice just as deep and sensuous as she remembered.  Hermione had missed his voice, even when it was scathing and cruel.  She had always respected him, trusted him, until the very end.

 

At his question, Hermione began to recoil, slipping to stand fully on her feet, but, found that she was being held by two large hands, grasping her upper arms.

 

He kissed her again, and she felt she would like to taste anise forever.  His tongue tangled with hers, and she moaned into his mouth, her hands grasping the front of his robes.  Hermione knew she tasted like tea, a sweet chai mixture Percy had given her at his flat, but with Severus’ anise flavour, she found the chai too sweet.

 

Severus released her, but still Hermione kissed him, her right hand moving from his wide chest to touch his hair.  It was slightly greasy, but it was real.

 

Finally pulling away, Hermione swayed on her feet, causing Severus to grasp her elbow to steady her.  She gazed up through her lashes at his face.  He did not smile; instead he stared back at her, confusion clear in his scowl.

 

“I assume you are a member of the Order.  I need to speak with Harry Potter, immediately.”

 

Hermione blinked, and opened her mouth to speak, anise thick on her tongue.  “You…you are really Severus Snape?”

 

His scowl deepened.  “Yes, and I need to speak to Harry Potter immediately.”

 

She wanted to ask why.  Why now?  But the anise had numbed her tongue, and Severus’ face, and his kiss, had numbed her mind.  And with an unattractive moan, she collapsed into Severus’ arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 840 words


	40. #40 - Sight - Neville/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #40 – Sight. She was astounded by what she saw in the heat of a summer day.

#40 - Sight

* * *

 

 

 

The sunlight coming down through the greenhouse glass made his skin glow a golden brown.  Even his hair had golden highlights in the dull brown, something she would have never known had it not been for what she was seeing that very moment.

 

It was unbearably hot outside, and more so in the greenhouses.  She was sweating, the front of her pink tank top turning a darker shade of salmon.  She could feel sweat on the back of her neck, where her thick hair was pulled up into a high ponytail.  However, as she looked at him, his shirt tied about his waist, dirty with dark soil, just like his ragged denims, she was struck by how sweat trailed down his back, over defined and thick muscles.

 

She had never known what Neville Longbottom looked like under his usual teaching robes and the clean and neat dress shirts. 

 

As it was summer, the students gone, the dress code was lax.  It was also an unusually hot summer that year, and no amount of Cooling Charms could beat the heat.  Most of the staff had left for cooler climes or were outside on the grounds where there was at least a cool breeze off the Black Lake.  Even Hagrid was wading in the lake while Aurora Sinistra was swimming nearby.

 

She had come to ask Neville if he wanted to swim as well, finding him in the greenhouse, working to replant a few pots of valerian, a potions ingredient that Horace usually tended to, but could not do so as he had escaped the heat for cooler regions unknown.

 

She watched his hands, darkened with ingrained soil as he finished with the last pot, sitting it aside on a dusty worktable.  He had been humming to himself, occasionally wiping his brow with the back of his hand.  His muscular shoulders and arms were tanned as well, and just as toned as his back.  She could not help but let her eyes move to the dusty seat of his denims and the tight perfection of his arse.

 

Where had she been looking for the past three years?

 

Hermione Granger sighed, leaning into the open door of the greenhouse, considering whether to take in the sight of her old friend or to interrupt her appreciation of his bum to ask him if he wanted to go swimming with her.  She had her bikini on under her tank top and short pants.

 

“Hermione?”

 

She blinked, her sigh had been too loud and far too wistful.

 

Neville was turned to her, his deep green eyes catching the rays of sunlight through the murky glass overhead.  His chest was just as muscular as the rest of him, a thin trail of dark brown hair running between his pectoral muscles down his abdominal muscles, disappearing into the loose waistband of his denims.  Hermione swallowed thickly, her eyes lingering on his slim hips.

 

“Is something wrong?”

 

The kindness in his voice was as it always was, and Hermione’s eyes snapped to his handsome face.  As a child, Neville was a round faced, tubby boy, but as he grew older, he became something else.  He was no squib, he no longer stuttered, he was a powerful wizard, yet kind, thoughtful, and comical at times.  Hermione was proud to count him as a good friend.

 

Although…

 

It was so shallow of her, she knew, to think of Neville as something more just at the sight of his body.  He had always been handsome as an adult; he had the personality and drive that any woman desired in a man.

 

The sight of his body did make a difference though.

 

“I…erm…”

 

She could not speak clearly as Neville wiped his hands on his denims, leaning back into the worktable, grasping the edges with his large, delicate hands.

 

“Come here, I want to show you something,” he said, smiling deviously

 

Hermione could only stare.  What had happened to her?  More importantly, when did Neville Longbottom begin smiling like a cat that ate the canary?  She managed to propel herself forward as Neville moved to another table, deeper into the wild greenery.  She followed, brushing past large leaves, fragrant flowers until the exit was obscured by pure flora.

 

“Orchids,” he said, as she came to stand next to him in front of glassed in boxes.  “You said once how much you liked them…”

 

She blinked.  She had said that years ago.

 

Inside the box were several varieties, segregated to prevent cross-pollinization.  Impossible violet and reds, it was beautiful, but Hermione could not appreciate them with Neville standing next her, towering over her, the sight of his pulse in his throat distracting her.

 

Neville glanced to her, smiling, but blinked, as he seemed to notice the intensity of her stare.  When his dirty hand brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear, Hermione shivered despite the heat.

 

She wondered what he saw in her face, his fingertips trailing along her jaw.  The spell was broken when her voice sounded, hesitant, nervous, and very unlike her.

 

“I was…  Was wondering if you wanted to take a swim in the loch…”

 

He glanced to the orchids then to her again.  “With you?”

 

She licked her lips.  “Aurora is swimming already, Hagrid is playing lifeguard, I suppose.”

 

“Where?”

 

Hermione blinked, her eyes following a line of sweat tricking over the flat plane of his chest, over his heart.

 

“Below Hagrid’s hut…”

 

He made a humming sound in his throat and Hermione could see his eyes grow distant for only a moment.

 

“Have you been to the little cove further south along the shore?  There’s a cool spot, deep, under some willows…”

 

She had not.

 

“Can you swim well?” he asked, softly.

 

She could.

 

“Then let’s go,” he said with a smile.  “Just us…”

 

The devious curl at the corners of his mouth returned, and Hermione wanted to moan.  The sight of him was enough to drive her mad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 997 words


	41. #41 - Temptation - Minerva/Tom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #41 – Temptation. She would not feel tempted to allow him much.

#41 - Temptation

* * *

 

 

“Please, Minnie…”

 

Such a temptation…  He was almost begging me, but I could see in his eyes that if I gave him what he wanted he would turn it back on me.  I knew him all too well.

 

I would not give him a reference to the DADA post.

 

My own tenure to Hogwarts was only of a few years, what would a letter of reference from me mean anything when Dumbledore very well what sort of history we shared?

 

Tom whispered my name again, grasping my hand, his dark eyes oddly different from what I remembered.  It had been several years since I had seen him last.  He was two years younger than I was, but he seemed older then, and more so now.

 

“I’ll do whatever you want, Minnie.”

 

I hated the pet name.

 

“I can give you whatever you want, now…”

 

I sniffed, pulling my hand away, rising from the sofa in my small chambers in the castle.  Tom had come from Hogsmeade, come to ask for Merryweather’s position.  He needed a voucher, a reference, someone to attest to his character.

 

The problem was, I never had really trusted Tom, even when I wanted to believe that he cared a whit about me in school.  He was brilliant, albeit a Slytherin.  He had been a Prefect under me when I was Head Girl.  He charmed me, he flattered me, and temptation led me to care for him.

 

“I won’t bribe you, but if you ask it of me, I’ll give you anything,” he said from the couch, his voice rich with sincerity.

 

I turned away from him, moving to the window overlooking the grounds.

 

“What I wanted then, what I want now, you could never give me, Tom.  You do not have the capacity for it,” I muttered, my hands grasping the windowsill, my forehead against the cool glass.

 

I heard him rise swiftly, his mouth open to protest.  I did not know why he thought he could convince me he was the same as he had been years ago.  I could not bear to look at him now, so different from the handsome boy I thought I knew then. 

 

“I have the capacity to do anything, Minnie,” he said finally, his tone confident.

 

I was not tempted to hope.

 

“What can I do to prove it to you?” he whispered urgently.

 

I turned from the window.  He had stepped very close, within arm’s reach, without my notice.  I lifted my chin and stared into his pale face.

 

“Kiss me.  Kiss me like you did all those years ago.”

 

He hesitated, his lips thinning as he pressed them together.  He seemed to stumble toward me, closing the gap between our bodies.  I waited; his hands moving stiffly to gather me close in mimicry of a motion that used to be so natural.

 

I did not close my eyes for a moment as our lips met, and when he saw me staring, he shut his eyes before me.  His lips were cold, his mouth tasteless.  His kiss was a lie, trying to be something it was not.

 

There was no passion like there had been, no heat, no need.  Even when his hand began to undo the top buttons of my dress between our kiss, I knew that he was only touching me because he had something to prove.

 

Tom was failing.

 

I tore away, aggravated, moving to the sofa again.  He stood, his back hunched, his hands falling to his sides.

 

Years ago, he had tempted me with a kiss that let to more kisses.  He tempted me to reveal myself to him, let him undo the buttons of my dress.  He had warmth in his hands and lips then.

 

Tom Riddle was a shell of a man.

 

“I want to be near you, Minnie, with you in the castle…”

 

“Don’t,” I snapped, my aggravation coming though in my voice.  “Don’t, Tom…” I sighed, reining my emotions.

 

He turned slowly, his face seemingly so gaunt, his eyes so sad.  I almost felt sorry for him, almost.

 

“I cannot give you what you want,” I whispered, sitting down on the sofa.  “Not in good conscience.”

 

He said nothing, and slowly moved to the door of my chambers.  However, before he left the room, he turned and I could feel his eyes upon me.

 

“You want more than I can give, in good conscience, Minerva.  That boy who made love to you has grown up.  I had hoped we could be friends again, colleagues, but it seems that you won’t let that be so.”

 

I turned my face further away.

 

“I hope you won’t regret it,” he growled.

 

When he was gone, I shivered.

 

The boy, who had made love to me in some darkened niche while the Yule Ball wound about near us, was not simply gone—he was dead.  And as far as regretting anything, I did not, there was no temptation to regret things that were from a lifetime ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 834 words


	42. #42 - Whisper - Hermione/Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #42 – Whisper. If they used whispers, no one would suspect.

#42 - Whisper

* * *

“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered, his pale hand wrapped over her mouth, his thumb resting upon the bridge of her nose.

 

She nodded, feeling his body pressed tight against hers.  Hermione did not move as his hand slipped from her face to her neck, his fingers fitting over her throat.

 

“What are they saying?” he whispered even as he lifted her skirts from behind.  She could feel his breath on the back of her neck, her hair pulled up into a messy bun.

 

“They are not sure what to do with the information.  They want to verify you are who you say you are…friend or foe,” Hermione whispered.

 

Only a sliver of light from the kitchen penetrated the dark corridor of Grimmauld Place, and it struck her amber eye, lighting it eerily.

 

She whimpered as she felt his left hand cool on the curve of her buttocks, his right hand still wrapped about her throat.

 

“What do you think, Hermione?” he whispered back, his hand moving to push aside her knickers.

 

Hermione took a deep breath, her eye catching movement as Ron stood from the kitchen table to stand next to Neville Longbottom who was poring over a map…

 

“Friend or foe?” she asked breathlessly, her body stiffening against the door jamb she leaned against, her left shoulder pressed into the wall while her face craned toward the crack of the door.

 

He hummed even as he slapped his stiff cock against her buttocks.

 

“You know I am biased,” she hissed softly.

 

The voices in the kitchen raised, and she could Arthur Weasley’s voice.

 

He hummed again as the head slipped into her hot dampness.  Hermione clenched her teeth lest she make a sound louder than whisper.  She tried to glance back at him, but she could feel how his knees knocked into her calves, how the buttons of the front of his trousers pressed into her thighs.

 

“Friend or foe, Miss Granger?” he hissed.

 

Hermione whimpered as he slid up into her body, sheathing himself fully.  His voice was just as erotic as the feel of him inside her body.

 

“I…” she whispered in a soft strain.

 

His hold about her throat tightened, and he stroked against her, eliciting a gasp.

 

“I…don’t….” she whimpered.

 

He thrust faster, only a whisper of her skirts against his belly making any noise.  Letting his hand slip down from her throat to grasp her breast roughly, he gasped as her pussy contracted.

 

“I…don’t…care…” she whispered urgently, pushing back against him.

 

The voices in the kitchen were at a fever pitch, and Hermione let out a moan.  At any moment someone would come out of the kitchen.  The reformed-Order meeting was to be brief…

 

“Severus…” she whispered, her eyes slamming shut, her hands moving to grasp his…one over her breast, the other about her hip.  “Severus…”

 

She could hear the scrape of the benches in the kitchen, the meeting was over.

 

“Severus!”

 

He was chuckling softly, but she could still hear the constraint in his voice.

 

Footsteps were coming closer to the door, and Hermione opened her eyes, wide…

 

When the door opened, Hermione watched Ron and Percy exit, but she was no longer by the door, but in a niche used as a broom cupboard, a simple gingham curtain hiding her from the eyes of the reformed-Order members.  Nothing had changed except that Severus Snape was kissing the back of her neck as his thrusts came faster and deeper.

 

Hermione stifled a groan, a hand grasping the curtain, the other latched to Severus’ fingers upon her hip.  She could not hear the members from the niche, their whispers too low, but she could hear Severus’ airy, and near silent laugh…relishing her fear as it was translated to the tight constriction of her lower body.

 

“I could be a spy…” he whispered into her ear.

 

Hermione frowned.  “A…spy for…what?  Your masters…are…dead…” she panted out in a whisper.

 

Severus chuckled, but suddenly choked softly.

 

Hermione’s head spun, unable to take anymore of Severus’ ministrations.  With a whimper, corresponding with Severus’ choke, she was gone on a wave of silent climax.  When her legs gave out, he caught her, and together they fell to the floor.  He wanted to roar as he usually did when he filled her, but instead he whispered his satisfaction.

 

“I…have a new…mistress…” he ground out, cradling Hermione against him on the dark floor.  “Much better than a master,” he panted…

 

Hermione grinned in the dark of the cupboard, listening as Severus smoothed down her skirts, causing the fabric to whisper against his hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 763 words


	43. #43 – Nightmare - Lucius/Hermione/Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #43 – Nightmare. Now you can wake up.

#43 – Nightmare

* * *

 

 

For a split second, he thought he was having a nightmare.  He was lying in bed, silken sheets wrapped about his naked body, believing that he was having a very vivid wet dream.  How else could two people he wanked over be standing at the foot of his bed?

 

Hermione Granger’s preternatural gold eyes matched the silk kimono hanging open over her smooth and young body.  She stared at him in a way that a cat would stare at a mouse it was about to torture.

 

Standing beside her, in traditional black, was Severus Snape.  Fathomless dark eyes peered down at him as if to scrutinize while a long fingered hand slid over Granger’s throat, around her neck to her shoulder to slip the kimono from her body.

 

They moved as one, gliding about the foot of the large bed to crawl up either side of him, Granger’s glorious body glowing golden while Severus’ thick black cloak and robes fluttered about his lean body.

 

This was a dream, what else could it be when Granger kissed him and Severus began disrobing?  He could taste honey on her tongue, but he could not close his eyes on his old friend.  When silvery pale skin compared to rich golden skin, he knew that it had to be a wet dream.

 

“He thinks he’s dreaming,” Granger purred, the sound of her voice very real as she began untangling the sheets from around his belly and hips.

 

“Legilimency, my dear?” Severus asked, pulling his long inky hair over one scarred shoulder, his hand reaching for his face, lifting his chin.

 

At some point, he had raised himself onto his elbows to look at the silver and gold phantasms sitting on either side of him on the bed.

 

“Too easy,” she sighed, her fingers running through his long and slightly mussed hair.

 

He immediately Occluded his mind.  Severus chuckled darkly, leaning down to taste his mouth.  Severus tasted like anise, a delightful contrast to Granger’s honey flavour.  He finally shut his eyes.  He had missed how Severus’ mouth felt and tasted.

 

Fingers wrapped about his cock, a bit of him that had swollen and stiffened at the sight of Granger’s body, a natural reaction to seeing Severus’ skin again.  He moaned into Severus’ mouth as another mouth kissed his cock, taking the length down a silky throat and applying an agonizingly fantastic suction.

 

His mouth was released with a gasp, and he fell back down to the bed.  Granger suckled on his cock, hand grasping his sac, rolling it along the soft palm of her hand.

 

“Did I tell you, my dear, that Lucius is quite the submissive?”

 

Granger’s eyes opened moving to Severus’ face as he rose on the bed to his knees, thick prick in his hand.  When her eyes met his, Lucius Malfoy shuddered.  With a pop, she released him, a thin trail of pre-cum pulling from the tip of his cock to her luscious lips.

 

“Oh?” was all she said, her hand tightening about the base of his sac, causing him to groan.

 

“Quite.  He would like nothing more to try to dominate you, however.  He has told me this on more than one occasion.”

 

Lucius wanted to shut Severus up.  There had always been a rule—things uttered in the privacy of his rooms never left those rooms.

 

“Too bad,” she sighed, “tonight is not the night for that.”

 

Lucius frowned, glancing up to Severus whose eyes burnt into his face.  The purple head of Severus’ cock pressed into his cheek, and Lucius knew what his friend wanted.  Severus hissed as Lucius turned his head and allowed Severus to thrust inside.  He could feel Granger watching, enthralled.

 

“Lucius…” Severus breathed, his fingers lacing through Lucius’ hair, “has a very talented mouth, whether in speaking, or sucking cock.  I’m sure he’s quite good with female anatomy as well, my dear,” Severus purred to Granger.

 

Lucius wondered when Severus and Granger had paired up; then again, once he thought about it, it was a suitable match.  He had to assume that Severus was just as domineering with Granger as he was with everyone else.

 

Gagging when he felt a slim digit slip inside his arse, Lucius’ eyes moved to Granger as she devoured his cock again. 

 

“She uses wandless magic very well, old friend,” Severus grounded out as he fucked Lucius’ mouth harder. 

 

Two digits slipped inside, and Lucius finally had to jerk his mouth away to groan.  Severus chuckled darkly even as those fingers moved, curled, and massaged that spot deep inside him that always caused starbursts to form before his open eyes.  Three digits and he felt his sac begin to pull upward into his body.

 

“Oh, not yet, Lucius…” Severus hummed, stroking himself slowly, watching the golden-eyed witch manipulate Lucius like putty in her hands.  His legs fell open wider, his hips jerking, and soon her mouth was gone, her fingers sliding from his arse.

 

“It will be like this, old friend.  I take your arse, like I always like to do, while you prove your self-proclaimed prowess to my lovely wife.”

 

Wife?  Lucius grunted, unable to speak one word since the pair had appeared at the end of the bed.

 

“You have her, but you do not come, that part of her is _mine_ , do you understand?” Severus snarled seductively, his hand moving from his cock to grasp Lucius’ chin.

 

Lucius nodded slowly, his eyes dulled, and within a few seconds, only flashes in his mind, he was on his hands and knees with lovely Hermione Granger, or was it Snape, under him.  Severus was pressed into his back, licking his throat, after pulling his long silvery hair over one shoulder.

 

Sinking into Granger was torture.  Tight, hot, wet, sweet and beautiful, Lucius could only watch her face as her mouth opened to moan softly, her head thrown back into dark blue silken pillows.  He ground his teeth at the feel of the witch, nubile and young.  He pushed her knees upward and back, forcing his cock in to the root.

 

However, as he leaned forward, so did Severus.  The pinching pain of penetration kept Lucius very still.  His eyes slammed shut as Severus grasped his shoulders, finger shifting to wrap about his throat.

 

“So lovely,” Severus whispered raggedly and Lucius opened his eyes to stare down at Granger, knees pressed into her perfect breasts, her eyes misty with some unidentifiable emotion.

 

“Move,” she whispered, not to him, but to Severus.

 

“As the lady wishes.”

 

Lucius felt outside of the intimate situation from their words to each other and when Severus thrust the first time, a whimper was pulled from him unwillingly.  The next few moments were of pain turning into pleasure, his cock deflating somewhat.

 

A slash of fingernails over his nipples brought him back, the new pain catching his attention.

 

“I meant for you to move as well,” she whispered to him, tears trickling from the corners of her eyes.

 

Lucius lowered his upper body, and for the first time, took the initiative to kiss her, allowing Severus’ movement to guide his own.  She cried into his mouth, a sweet cry that made his blood boil.

 

Oh, how he wanted to dominate this witch!

 

Moving together, in syncopated motion, Lucius was not sure if it truly was a dream or a nightmare.  It did not matter, however, the taste, the feel, and the sound of the dream bringing him ever closer to an explosive climax.

 

Granger came first, her hand tugging on his hair, the other pinching his right nipple brutally.  Severus followed; having felt and watched Lucius fuck his ‘wife.’ 

 

Lucius however, suddenly detached from the moving bodies, did not come.

 

“Good boy,” Severus whispered from somewhere over him.

 

“Now you can wake up,” Granger whispered.

 

Lucius came all over his belly and chest, and opening eyes, found himself miserably alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,316 words


	44. #44 - Bittersweet - Harry/Ginny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #44 – Bittersweet. His life would only ever taste bittersweet.

#44 - Bittersweet

* * *

The papers called it a bittersweet victory and he had to agree.  There were so many losses, and so many families torn apart, all because of the accident of his birth.  He knew he would spend years wallowing in regret, self-hatred, and shock.

 

Harry Potter could not live with guilt.  For seven years since learning he was a wizard it seemed guilt was piled upon him, weighing him down.  And so, he left Britain, using as little money as possible, hiding his identity, and not using magic.  He only planned to stay away for a short while, a time in which he could understand that not everything was his fault.  He wanted to find a place where no one knew his name and no one cared.

 

America, a land of dreams, was where he went.  He did not make it a secret to his friends that he was going to a country where no one cared about your name or the scar upon your forehead.  If they needed him, they could find him if they so desired, and if he decided suddenly to return to Britain, he would and he could.

 

But he did not.

 

He travelled the ‘lower forty-eight’ by Muggle means.  He could not drive a car, so he settled for buses and trains.  Airplanes gave him chills, and he kept to the ground.  He even hitchhiked a few times, not caring about a destination.  With only a pack on his back, a pair of worn trainers on his feet, Harry Potter became a ‘leather tramp.’

 

He met witches and wizards on his way, and none of them cared that he had a funny accent or that he had a ‘funky’ scar on his forehead.  Harry was desperate to lose the accent, and he did, for the most part after six months.

 

By the first year, he had settled in a place that no one would bother him, and no one would pry into his business.  It was a place in the east, an old mountain chain that ran through a poor state with honest people, and a great deal of privacy.

 

It was a little town off the beaten track, surrounded by green mountains and miles of untouched nature.  The only attraction was a large ski resort about fifteen miles north of town.  Harry settled in Marlinton just after the ski season.

 

It was a strange little town, composed of Irish immigrant sheep farmers, outcasts, nature lovers, and eccentric astronomers who worked at an under funded observatory fifteen miles in another direction from the ski resort.  Overall, it was a town where one could have their privacy.

 

Harry loved Marlinton; he even loved the ramshackle little house on the edge of town where the rent was low and the upkeep high.  He could use magic to refinish the house, but he preferred the hard, bone numbing labour of repainting the house for the elderly landlady, even repapering the front room with something he found at the family owned hardware store on the main street.

 

At night, he listened to river that ran behind the house.  He listened to the crickets and the quiet, and sometimes he would climb on the roof to look at a clear starry sky.  He worked odd jobs for people in the neighborhood, and sometimes went to the little bar on the other side of town to drink beer with old farmers and loggers, watching American football or baseball on the large screen TV.

 

It was a simple life, no frills, no danger, and Harry relished it.

 

One year and eight months after destroying Voldemort in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, Harry was trudging through a foot and half of snow, trying to clean his landlady’s sidewalk in the better part of town.  His landlady had told him that if he would keep the sidewalk to the mailbox clean, she would waive half of his rent.  Harry simply did it to keep himself from going stir crazy in the snow-covered town.

 

He had never seen so much snow in one place in his life.  A foot and half of snow was something he ever saw twice in the Highlands.

 

It was as he was walking down the salted streets back to his house with a snow shovel over his shoulder that he began to feel the weight of eyes upon him.  It was not the usual weight of eyes, peeking between curtains to the street; it was the weight of eyes that was stalking him.

 

Harry did not pause in his walking, his heavy snow boots crunching salt crystals under heavy rubber tread.  He adjusted his knit toboggan, rubbing his scar as he trotted across an intersection, slipping in some slush.  There were few cars on the streets, even with ski season being in full swing, the amount of snow made it difficult to keep the roads up for buses of skiers.

 

His breath came out in white streams as he walked, his little yellow house in sight at the end of the street.  Glancing to the frozen river, he could feel that someone was behind him.  Propping the shovel next to the unlocked front door, he wiped his boots on the mat and pushed inside to warmth.

 

Automatically and naturally, his glasses fogged.  Toeing out of his boots, Harry did not remove his glasses, waiting for the temperature of the glass to warm to the temperature of the front room.  Pulling off his hat and stuffing it in the pocket of his arctic coat, he unzipped the garment and shrugged it off to hang it on a peg near the door.

 

When his glasses unfogged, he fell back, startled, against the front door.

 

Standing in the middle of the front living room was a cloaked figure, face obscured by a low cowl.  He ran his hand to the pocket of his Muggle jeans, thinking his wand would be there, but it was not, it was in a shoebox in the closet of the upstairs bedroom, along with his Wizarding International passport and a handful of galleons.

 

“What are…” he began, but small, pale hands moved to push the cowl back.

 

Harry blinked rapidly at the face he saw, and then, propelled by some unknown compulsion, he took the cloaked figure in his arms, his cold lips devouring a warm, sweet mouth.  His frozen fingers ran through soft crimson hair.

 

He had to bend down to kiss her face, had to flex his arms to crush her soft body into his.  He could not believe she had come for him.

 

“Ginny…” he breathed when they parted.

 

There were tears in her lovely blue eyes, but they did not fall over her pale cheeks.  Instead, she took a step back, and slapped him hard across the face.  Harry stumbled, falling into his ragged sofa, grasping his burning cheek.

 

She stared at him, her eyes hard, and then, her face crumbled into laughter.  Harry was gaping as she pounced on him, pinning him to the sofa, kissing his cold face, grasping his grey jumper, pulling it off him to kiss his chest.  He did not understand, even when she unbuttoned his jeans, pulling the zipper down.

 

Harry could only stare incredulously up at her as she drew her wand and with a swish, magicked her cloak, her dress, tights, and shoes, to fold neatly on top of the old cabinet television.  It was not until that she sank down on his cock that he knew what was happening, by then, however, it was too late.

 

He could only grasp her hips and slam her down onto his cock, kiss her clumsily, grope at her small, pert breasts.  He remembered telling her that he needed time to figure out what he wanted in life now that he had a chance to live it.  He remembered that she had been angry that he left for America.  He remembered all those nights alone, thinking of her.

 

And she was there, suddenly, uninvited.  Harry felt slightly angry.  He was not ready to go back, but…

 

“Yes!” she shouted over his grunts and groans.  It was the only thing she had said so far.

 

But…  Only to be able to touch her again, fill her tight body again, he would almost consider going back.  It was a bittersweet decision to make, just as it was a bittersweet sort of reunion for him.  He loved her, obsessively, especially when she came around his cock, threatening to drain his very soul from his body. 

 

He wanted to hate her for making him to decide so quickly, what it was he wanted in his life.

 

“I love you,” he whispered after he came with a gasping whimper.  And so he did, and so he would, love her, even if it was a bittersweet love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,471 words


	45. #45 - Guilt - Cho/Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #45 – Guilt. She had been carrying around tiny bits of guilt for too long.

#45 - Guilt

* * *

 

It was not his fault.

 

Cho knew that she had to stop torturing herself.  She knew she had to deal with the grief and the guilt and move on with her life.  Easier said than done, she thought.

 

It had started simply, with a kiss that she botched by letting guilt consume her.  Cho wondered if her crying during their first kiss irreparably traumatized Harry Potter.  She stressed about it for weeks afterward.  She understood why he pushed her away; Cho Chang was an emotional basket case. 

 

She blamed so much on Cedric, and then everything on Harry for not saving Cedric.  It was illogical she knew, but she only knew in hindsight.

 

For years after Cedric and the disastrous kiss, she tried her best to be just ‘okay.’  She fought next to the DA in the Battle of Hogwarts; she buried friends and nursed others.  She finished her education, she had a flat in Diagon Alley, and she considered what to do with her adult life.

 

A letter had come the day before, totally unexpected, and one that made her heart beat too quickly.

 

Harry Potter wanted to see her, perhaps take her to lunch.  She was not sure what to make of the letter.

 

She had been working at St. Mungo’s, on a volunteer basis, while taking courses in law at King’s College.  Her income was meager and she hoped that when Harry sent a reply to her affirmative it was not a lunch in a pricier restaurant.

 

He was going to meet her in the Leaky Cauldron at noon.

 

Cho’s hands shook as she brushed out her hair, making sure the side part was straight, making sure her makeup was not too much, and not too little.  She adjusted the right strap of her brassiere, and smiled at herself in the mirror.  She did not look too nervous when she smiled, it just every other time that her lips trembled along with the rest of her.

 

At noon, she found him waving her over from a secluded booth, the pub too dark and smoky for her to see him clearly until she moved to him.  When she sat down, he smiled in the muted lamplight.  He had grown up. 

 

“I wanted to apologize to you, Cho,” he said later, after they had finished with small talk and tried to eat.  Cho had only picked at her food.

 

She had mastered herself somewhat, her lips no longer quivering.

 

“When…  When we kissed that time, and when Ginny was so short with you the day of the battle.”

 

She tried to look surprised or perhaps bemused; instead, she felt her face become still, her eyes boring into the rough tabletop.

 

“I never wanted to drift so far away that we could not at least be friends.”

 

Friends, it was a quaint idea, she thought.  She had so few nowadays.  Harry Potter, the Saviour of the Wizarding world, wanted to be her friend.

 

Even as he walked her back to her flat, she knew that people were watching.  Harry was a celebrity, and she?  She was a nobody.  She had been Cedric Diggory’s girlfriend once upon a time.  She still had the clippings about the Tri-Wizard Tournament with a picture of her and Cedric at the Yule Ball.

 

“How about lunch next week?  You can tell me all about University life…”

 

He was leaning against the doorframe of her flat door, smiling blithely, his eyes moving over the bare walls of her the flat, to the obsessively neat sitting room, to the spotless kitchen.

 

She could not maintain the façade any longer.  He was being far too nice.  He had not mentioned Ginny Weasley; he had not mentioned his work.  All that they had talked about over lunch was people they knew at school, dancing around the subject of Cedric.

 

She felt her hands begin to tremble again, her face begin to crumple.

 

“Cho?  What’s the matter?”

 

He sounded honestly concerned.

 

When she moved, it was reminiscent of days playing Quidditch at school.  Her hands grasped his coat, pulling him into the flat.  It was clumsy, and they fell, hard.  He was flustered, embarrassed, and tried to be a gentleman to help her off him.

 

Cho would not move, her face buried into his chest, inhaling the scent of him, feeling the warmth of him.  He was no boy, no longer too skinny, too gawky. 

 

She kissed him, and there were no tears.  It was not the chaste, innocent kiss of years before; it was a kiss that she should have given him.  It was deep, wet, and passionate.  For years, she had carried millions of tiny guilts, and one of them had been not taking what she wanted with Harry.

 

She was going to take it now, and feel the load lighten as one guilt turned into satisfaction.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 809 words


	46. #46 - Star - Hermione/James, Hermione/Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #46 – Star. She came to him in starlight.

#46 - Star

* * *

She came from starlight…that was all he knew.  He had stopped questioning the possible mechanics of it all.  He was more concerned with being about to touch her without making her image disappear.

 

She only ever appeared in the Head’s Common Room, a room that he shared with a very absent Slytherin Head Girl.  He did not worry about her coming in and interrupting.  So it was at night that the girl appeared in starlight, lying upon the bench under the window, nude, eyes staring at him as if waiting for him to notice her.

 

James Potter had declared his undying love to Lily Evans, but, the woman in the starlight was something more.

 

She spoke to him at times, but no sound ever came.  He could only read some words from her lips, but never her name.

 

He would speak to her, and she seemed to hear him.  He would ask who she was, why she was there, but there was never an answer.

 

That night he had moved an armchair before the bench and he sat in his loose pyjama bottoms, watching as the woman began to materialize on the bench, lying on her side, her head propped up in her hand.  Even made of starlight, he could tell that her eyes were a strange amber colour, and her unruly waves of hair were a caramel brown.  As for her perfect skin, it was made of starlight and gleamed silver.

 

She greeted him with a nod of her head, her free hand draped over her rounded hip to obscure the dark curls between her thighs.  James had never seen a woman naked like this woman.  He had seen pictures in Sirius’ smut magazines, but it was nothing compared to this woman.

 

Her lips moved slowly, carefully, as if she knew that he had to struggle to read them.

 

‘…last time I can come like this…’

 

He frowned, leaning forward in the armchair, adjusting his glasses on his nose.

 

“Why?” he whispered, a hint of desperation in his voice.

 

She moved, sitting up on the bench under the window, leaning back into the wall, curling her long legs beside her.

 

‘…too hard to become…’

 

He thought perhaps she said ‘corporeal,’ but was not sure.

 

‘…wanted to see for myself…’

 

He blinked, not understanding.

 

Their meetings were never long, but were composed of two things:  her trying to tell him something and her showing him every part of her body.  Part of the reason he had never told anyone about the woman was because they might think him insane, and because she was his alone.  He wanted to touch her because he wanted to feel the softness of her skin, the dewy wetness she showed him when she touched herself.

 

It was like some sad excuse of a ‘peep show.’  She tortured him.

 

‘…show me, James…’

 

How she knew his name was a mystery.  She knew his name from the very beginning, and yet, he had no clue as to who she was.

 

“I want to touch you,” he said, slowly standing from the armchair, stepping closer.

 

Sometimes he thought he could smell her.

 

‘Try…’

 

He swallowed, taking another step forward.  He was afraid that if his own shadow in the starlight would fall over her, she would disappear, but he reached out, to touch her heavy breast.

 

For a moment, he felt nothing but air, as if she was made of smoke, and then, suddenly, he felt flesh.  A thrill shot through him as his thumb brushed an erect, dusky nipple.  The front of his pyjama bottoms tented.  He ground his teeth, slightly embarrassed that he would get an erect by merely touching a woman’s breast.  Lily had never let him ever get so far.

 

He gazed down at her face, her eyes closed, her head falling back against the wall.  He wondered how old she was, she did not look much older than the girls did in his year, but she was still far more mature.  She was ageless, made of starlight and warm silvery skin.

 

Her eyes opened slowly as his hand grasped her breast firmly, more confidently.

 

‘Kneel…’

 

James was panting for breath, but complied.  He could not help but begin to push his pyjama pants off his slim hips, freeing the aching erection, and taking it in one hand.  She watched him, peering down along her straight nose, first as his cock, then up his bare chest.

 

It had to be some dream; he thought as her legs unfurled, knees falling open before his face, revealing the dark curls and slippery flesh.  He looked up at her face again, her lips moving. 

 

All he caught was:  ‘…do it…something…you…’

 

His fingers touched the heated flesh, felt the sticky wetness, and slipped inside her body.  It was impossibly warm and tight, and withdrawing his fingers, they were wet.  He sniffed and then tasted, his other hand stroking his cock in hard, but slow movements.

 

She tasted like honey. 

 

Her hands touched his face, and with a movement, removed his glasses, letting them clatter to the rug under his knees.  When his mouth pressed against her, her fingers lacing through his dark, untidy hair, his pumping hand became more hurried.

 

‘Listen to me, James Potter.’

 

Her words were so clear and he opened his hazel eyes to stare up into her face.  She was speaking, but still there was no sound, whatever he was hearing was not her voice.

 

‘Listen well…’

 

He listened, but kept licking and nipping at her flesh.  He listened to her words, incredulous.  She told him about his future, told him about Lily and about a man who had been in the papers, Voldemort.

 

‘No more time…’

 

Her back arched, and glancing up to her face, he saw the glorious expression of climax.  It was too much, and he pulled away, ejaculate coating his chest.  He fell back onto the rug, gasping, his chin sticky from her juices.

 

However, as he looked up at her, she was gone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ten Years Later…

 

 

Hermione whimpered her completion as Harry pulled his mouth quickly away, gasping.  His hand crushed into the glass lens of his discarded spectacles, but it ignored the pain.  The clouds had obscured the sky and the stars above.

 

“Did…did it work?” Harry asked, crawling over Hermione’s trembling, nude body to gather her up in his arms.

 

She nodded, “I think so…”

 

Harry sighed, licking her sweet juices from her lips.  He kissed her, brushing her wild hair from her face, feeling her shiver in the cool night.  The stone table in the sacred circle was cold now that the magic waned.

 

She kissed him in return, her arms snaking about his neck.

 

Harry groaned as her hip shifted, brushing against his hard cock.  He was still lying in the cradle of her hips.  He wanted to plunge inside her, take her once, and for all, but it was never supposed to happen that way.

 

He loved her, his best friend, but the actions were part of the magic, not done because they originally wanted to feel something more than what they had.  All that mattered was the magic worked, and the message had been relayed.  Hermione had told James Potter, his father, what he needed to know so that every event would play out correctly.

 

“It’s alright now,” Hermione whispered, letting Harry pull away.

 

The magic was gone from the circle, and Ron and Neville came running, Neville throwing a cloak over Hermione’s trembling body, taking her up into his arms.  Ron helped Harry off the ancient stone table, letting the cloak drape over his shoulders.

 

“It’s over,” Harry whispered as he watched Neville carry Hermione away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,284 words


	47. #47 - Moon - Teddy/Victoire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #47 – Moon. There was a wolf living inside him.

#47 - Moon

* * *

 

 

There were times that he felt as if the moon would turn him into something more than a man.  It frightened him, it angered him, and Teddy Lupin hid his face from the full moon.

 

“It is silly, Teddy, really silly.”

 

Victoire, or Tori as he called her, always told him how silly he was when it came to the moon.

 

It had become habit ever since they started dating in his sixth year at Hogwarts that they sit atop the Astronomy Tower every night of the full moon.  It had been Tori’s idea, always so forward thinking, never shirking responsibility, and never letting fear get the better of her.

 

They sat on the stone floor of the Tower, leaning back into the battlements as the moon began to rise over the mountains.  Teddy was approaching his last full moon at Hogwarts, and soon he would have to leave Tori behind.  She still had two years left, two years to forget about him if she wanted.

 

In the brightening moonlit sky, Tori glowed silver, her pale red hair shimmering like bloody silver satin, and her nearly colourless eyes reflecting everything around her, even his face.

 

“We have been through this a million times.  Lycanthropy is not genetic, not unless your father was born a werewolf, and he was not.  My dad is not a werewolf, he was not bitten, but he still has some of benign traits. 

 

In your case, with your father being a werewolf and your mother a Metamorphagus, you might simply feel the genetic disposition to hide from the moon.  It is silly though, you have never changed into a werewolf, and you are a Metamorphagus who never morphs—you’re just Teddy…”

 

Tori was trying to make him feel better, her hand slipping into his, but Teddy did not have the heart to tell her that she sounded like her grandmother, berating him for no good reason.

 

Teddy’s chocolate brown eyes widened as he saw the top arc of the rounded moon lift from behind the mountain.  He did not care what Tori said, the sight of the moon made his blood race and his skin prickle.  Every time he was near Tori while they watched the moon, Teddy had to clench his teeth and keep his mind shut tight from the silent voices telling him to do things to the girl he loved.

 

There was a wolf living in him.

 

As a boy, his grandmother told him almost nothing about his parents, fearing that Teddy would somehow develop a ‘complex’—which Teddy later learned was his Grandmother Andromeda’s fear that Teddy may have inherited some of the less favourable Black family traits.  It was not until Teddy went to Hogwarts did his grandmother sit him down and tell him everything about Remus John Lupin and Nymphadora Tonks.  Teddy was bewildered at first, then excited.  His parents had been war heroes, they had been special, and they had been loved by all that knew them.  However, what his grandmother did not tell him, and possibly did not know, was that as Teddy grew older, grew into maturity, some of his father’s traits were beginning to push through to the outside.

 

The wolf living inside him was getting stronger.

 

Teddy felt pain as the moon was halfway up from behind the mountain, and he knew he was crushing Tori’s hand in his own.  It always happened this way, but Tori never said a word.

 

How she could be so understanding, so ignorant to the danger she was in by being near him?

 

The moon, the wolf, it wanted to hurt her, fuck her, bite her, tear her apart…

 

Teddy never changed, not into the beast his father had been, but Teddy could feel change inside.  He knew his eyes were different though he would never show Tori.  He knew his eyes were not changing because he was a Metamorphagus.  He knew that he was stronger during the full moon, his magic more potent.  He knew that every moon that would come would only make the wolf inside stronger.

 

He was too mortified to tell Tori how wrong she was. 

 

“There…” Tori whispered, “The moon is up.  Now, look at it Teddy…”

 

It was the same words she used every time, and every time, Teddy did as she wished.

 

He did not truly fear the moon, he feared himself.

 

Uncle Harry had told him about his father, and his father’s struggles to reconcile the beast and the man.  What would Uncle Harry say if Teddy told him that the struggle had continued from father to son?

 

Teddy pulled his hand away from Tori’s and stood, his school robes falling about his ankles.  His Head Boy badge caught the moonlight as he moved toward the door leading back down into the castle.

 

He ignored Tori’s protests, wishing to get as far away from her as possible before he did something he knew he would regret.  As he ran down the steps, he forcefully changed his eyes again, no longer yellowed with suppressed power, but brown again.  He could not let anyone see him so disheveled, or so ready to attack another person if only to satisfy the howling in his blood.

 

Slamming the door shut to his chambers, ignoring the Ravenclaw Head Girl in the Head’s common room, Teddy tore at his clothes until he stood naked in the moonlight streaming in the window.

 

His blood boiled, his skin rippling as if to morph.  The moonlight burned him and soothed him, and grasping his shaggy brown hair, he fell to his knees into the moonlit square on the floor, the light striking his muscular back.

 

Teddy wished his parents could help him, he wished his parents had warned him, and he wished his parents could explain what was happening to him.  The moon made his blood battle, the wolf or the man, the man or the wolf.  It was making Teddy Lupin insane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 993 words


	48. #48 - Run - Hermione/???

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #48 – Run. She would follow him anywhere.

#48 - Run

* * *

 

 

“Run!” he shouted, startling her to action.  “Run, and don’t stop!”

 

Her curls flew as she turned, caramel tresses flying out behind her, her dark green traveling cloak like a flag upon the icy air.  She ran…away from him as the moon began to rise.  He could still smell her, her flowery perfume, her shampoo, her skin…her blood.

 

He turned back to stare at the rising full moon, too large for the wintry sky, casting silver light over the snow and the dark trees.  He could feel the change already; the cracking of his bones to reshape would come after the boiling of his blood.  After so many years, he knew he should be used to the change…but he wasn’t.  Every full moon was painful, absolute agony…

 

He could still hear her in the trees, running.

 

When the change came in full force, he was knocked off his feet, screaming in a voice that he could never believe to be his own.  His legs contorted, bones cracking, his spine curved unnaturally…as did his neck and arms.  The fine suit he had worn was in tatters, and the boots discarded as his wolf legs kicked and thrashed.

 

He had taken his Wolfsbane, but he had not made it in time to see that she was safe.  When the transformation was complete, he rolled off his back to stand on four legs.  With his keen beast eyes, he could see the moon in a red shade…and then his paws, covered in silver fur.

 

A distant sound pricked his ears and he turned his head toward the trees…he could hear her running.

 

With a sharp nip of a bark, he took off, running through the trees, his nose honed to her scent…gardenia, it was.

 

Merlin, they had been so stupid, deciding to take a walk when they both knew the full moon would be out that night.  The human part of him wanted to yell at her.  They were not inside protected wards; they were near a Muggle village…  Merlin, they were stupid.

 

The snow crunched under his paws, and he panted as he ran.  The wolf part of him was happy to be running.  Too many full moons had been spent in the cellars or old cottages of the Italian Alps.  A six-month honeymoon on the Continent...  They should have never left Britain.

 

Running through the trees…through dark pines below the tree line of majestic mountains…he wondered if there were any others like him enjoying the cold, crisp air.

 

Ahead…on the needle covered ground…he stopped.  His nose buried into her discarded cloak, inhaling the scent of her.  It was intoxicating to smell her…and he knew that not far ahead, she was still running.

 

With a clipped howl, he took off again, bounding between the trees, glowing eyes flashing in the light filtering between the branches.  He leapt over another article of clothing and stooped, paws sliding, to backtrack.  It was her boots and stockings…

 

Odd, he thought…raising his wolfish head to taste and smell the wind.  Picking up her scent again, he ran.

 

A bodice…gloves…skirts…  He stopped just as the far edge of the trees, which led up a steep slide of snow and rocks going up the mountainside. 

 

On a bolder just before him stood a shape, not a human form, but a wolf form.

 

His hackles rose and he growled.  Another wolf…and no human wife to found.

 

The wolf was smaller than he, but growled back at him with as much anger.  In those yellow eyes he could not see any human thought, only animal fury.  And when they crashed together, claws scratching, jaws snapping, he wondered…

 

The dark brown wolf yelped as he threw it aside with his jaws, slamming it into a tree dislodging pine needles that rained down upon the animal.  Before the wolf could rise, he was upon it, jaws about the back of its neck, pinning it to the ground.

 

The smaller wolf seemed to cry in yelps and whimpers, but did not fight.  He held it down, growling into its neck.  If he applied more pressure, he could snap its neck…but he did not.  Instead he sniffed at the smaller wolf, his animal brain sifting through the scent of blood and fur to smell…gardenia.

 

He released the wolf and jumped back, sniffing.

 

The smaller wolf shifted, but lay on the ground, staring back at him, whining pitifully.  The yellow eyes were not that of true wolf, the pupils rounded, and human.  He studied it closer…the snout was like his…shorter than a true wolf’s and the tail…tufted.  He sneezed in realization, his nose suddenly inundated with the scent of the small, female wolf.

 

She rose shakily and gave a soft growl.  With a slow movement, she circled him, her black nose moving to smell him.  He could tell that she did not know him, and when she came closer, he did not move, did not growl.  He had taken Wolfsbane…she had not…why should she?

 

When her body rubbed against his, he howled softly before licking her face.  He could smell her blood where he had bitten her neck, and licked there as well.  He wanted to ask her when it had happened.  Surely, he had been the one to bite her.  Surely, it had to have been the last moon when they had stayed in a cottage near Bolzano.  Surely, she would have said something…

 

She licked his face, and then yipped at him. 

 

There was little to be done now, he thought, and took off knowing she would follow.

 

“I would go with you, my husband, full moon or no,” she had said once.

 

His secret, after being bitten by Greyback during his Seventh Year, had been pressing in on him.  Hermione Granger had not minded his secret…she had not minded him, and then she said ‘yes’ and married him.  They would truly have a secret to share, now...

 

They ran through the snow and trees, along the mountain streams and boulders.  They ran together under the moon, never having any reason to be apart any longer.  Husband _and_ wife would be outcasts…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,019 words


	49. #49 - Hide - Severus-Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #49 – Hide. She was hiding something from me.

#49 - Hide

* * *

I had died, and was in heaven.  There was no other way to explain it…’it’ being that I had somehow been transported from the floor of the Shrieking Shack to a soft bed, warm light falling upon my nude body, and a tender hand giving me a spicy scented sponge bath.

 

I had died, bleeding from a snakebite to the neck…seeing Potter’s face, and cursing that he had not been my son.  My son?  With whom?

 

And I realized that there was something missing in my brain, a large chunk of memories…something to do with why Potter should have been my son.

 

Damn.

 

As it was, I was stretched out on clean white cotton sheets, gold rays of light warming my skin from a high window set into a stonewall.  The gentle splashing of water told me that the sponge was being wrung out, and slowly I turned my black eyes to the source of the noise.

 

“You should know, you will not able to talk, Severus, and you should not try to move just yet, the poison is still present in your body.”

 

I felt my brow furrow on its own…not from surprise or confusion, but because the figure standing by the bed seemed to glow too brightly in the sunlight.  It was a girl who had become a woman, and her skin glowed gold.  Her small hand grasped the sponge, and she proceeded to wipe warm, scented trails over my chest, down to my belly.

 

Gods.  She was beautiful…a riot of caramel waves, small, pink china-doll lips, long dark lashes against a faintly freckled cheek…and honey coloured eyes that traced the muscles of my belly, and the dark hair trailing from my chest to my navel…to my erection.

 

I gritted my teeth, and tried to move, but all voluntary movement was non-responsive to my will.  Everything was involuntary, including the hard-on twitching against my course pubic hair.

 

The worst part of all was the fact that I knew the woman who was wiping away my dried sweat and body odor.

 

Hermione Granger. 

 

I was in hell…

 

“To answer the obvious questions…you are not dead.  You are in the basement of Grimmauld Place, Voldemort is dead, and you have been unconscious for months since that night in the Shrieking Shack.  No one from the outside knows you are here.  Minerva and I have been tending to you.

 

Your muscles have not atrophied, but you are weak from your injuries.  Your name has been cleared since everyone believes you dead, and as soon as you are well, you should begin to think of leaving Britain.”

 

Her voice was warm, but her words cut at me.  I was alive, the Dark Lord was dead, but my name…my life…was over.  Severus Snape was dead, but I remained.

 

Why had I been saved?

 

“Aberforth brought you to me, and even to this day I do not know how he had known to do that,” she said, anticipating my mental question as she could see into my mind.

 

Her sponge moved to my thighs and, involuntarily, I moaned.  She paused to gaze into my eyes, and smiled.  My heart skipped a beat.

 

Moving to set her sponge in the basin on the bedside table, Hermione Granger wiped her hands into her apron, which I had not noticed before…an apron covering a floral patterned dress…an apron that hid a tale-tell bulge in her belly.  The girl was pregnant…by Weasley, no doubt.

 

“It isn’t Ron’s,” she whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed, her hands descending toward my face, brushing at long, clean strands of black hair.

 

Her fingers caressed my shaven jaw, and I realised that if I had been incapacitated since the Shrieking Shack, Hermione Granger had been the one to wash my lank hair, and shave my severe face.

 

Leaning down, I could feel her full breasts upon my chest…and my erection bobbed.  She smelled like earth and flowers, a wonderful mixture of fertility.  I could even feel the bulge of her womb against my ribs.  And as she kissed my forehead, I could feel her happiness wash over me, and in turn, I felt happiness.

 

The only lingering concern was the missing bits of my memory…but as her lips met mine, I realised I was missing a large chunk of memory…and it had to do with the woman whose fingers tangled in my hair.

 

“I’m glad you are awake, Severus,” she whispered, her breath smelling of an herbal infusion of tea…a mint and vanilla.

 

When she moved away, the sunlight bathing her supple body in golden light, I wondered why she had hidden me away, why she had saved me, and most of all, why she was smiling at me with her right hand moving to the bulge under her apron.

 

What was I not remembering?  What was she hiding?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 809 words


	50. #50 - Play - Hermione/Lucius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #50 – Play. She liked to play with him…

#50 - Play

* * *

 

 

Her red cloak flapped in the wind blowing through the trees, and with a gloved hand, she swiped a few curls from her amber eyes, walking on along the faint path…to the cottage she needed to reach.  The sun barely penetrated the canopy of trees, and the wind was strong, but she continued on toward her destination, basket in hand.

 

However, the path began to dissipate, and she found herself lost.

 

Perhaps she had somehow veered onto an animal path; perhaps the dim light and the wind had disoriented her.  However, as she rounded about a low rock face, the sunlight a bit brighter ahead, she realized that leaning against the rocks in silhouette was a man.

 

“Are you lost, little Red?” he asked in a drawl.

 

She knew never to speak to strangers, especially ones in the Forbidden Forest, but she was lost…and the food in her basket was nearly cold. 

 

“Little Red?” she asked, not bothering to stop as she passed the man.

 

“Your cloak…” he answered.

 

She studied him out of the corner of her eye.  He was older, long silvery blond hair, piercing silver eyes, roguishly handsome in dark, form fitting clothes under billowing black robes…  As the wind blew his robes, she saw a silver mask upon a string blowing along with the robe…a wolfish mask.

 

“Where are you going, little Red?”

 

She shivered at the timbre of his voice as he walked in step with her.

 

“To a cottage deep in the wood,” she answered, hesitantly.

 

“Ah, well then, you’re going the wrong way, my little one.”

 

She stopped abruptly, causing the basket in her hand to swing painfully into her left hip.  “Then which way do I need to go?” she asked, unable to contain her anxiety.

 

The pale man smirked.  “Ahead there is a fork, take the left hand path and it will take you directly to the cottage…”

 

With a warm smile, she said her goodbyes as she hurried away.

 

The pale man grinned…and donning his mask, disappeared into the wind.  He knew that if he took the right hand path; he would reach the cottage in half the time as his quarry.

 

Within a few minutes, ‘Little Red’ had found the cottage—the cottage of her old Professor, and mentor, Minerva McGonagall.

 

Hermione Granger knocked upon the cottage door, her brow furrowing.

 

She felt strange, staring at the wood grain of the worn oak door.  The basket was heavy in her left hand, her bright red cloak warm against her back…but somehow something felt wrong.

 

“Come in!” called a voice from inside the small cottage, and Hermione entered.

 

Inside the small cottage rested a large bed, the four posters swathed in red velvet, the walls papered with red…and besides a large fireplace against the far wall, the cottage was filled with not much else.  How odd, Hermione thought, closing the door behind her.

 

“Come closer!”

 

Hermione felt warning flash through her body, but she moved at any rate, and soon she was standing at the bedside, only a blanketed lump resting in the bed…the face obscured.

 

“I brought you some food, Professor…” she said softly, and her face shifted into a smile, one that felt uncomfortable on her face.

 

“Food?  How wonderful!”

 

The voice was muffled, and Hermione could not see the face.

 

“Your voice…it sounds as if you have a cold…”

 

The words came out automatically, and Hermione moved to place the basket on the floor, doffing her cloak carelessly.  She realised, quite embarrassedly, that she wore nothing underneath…

 

Slowly, the figure in the bed turned, and Hermione was face to face with a silver mask, shaped like an animal’s, but not distinct enough to determine what sort of animal she was staring at.  However, behind the mask, she could see a pair of gleaming silver eyes, and long silver blond hair streamed from the head.

 

“My, what bright eyes you have, Professor,” Hermione whispered, pulling off her gloves, finger by finger.

 

“The better to see you with, my love.”

 

It was a man’s voice, and the mask, she realised, was the one she had seen under than strange woodsman’s cloak.

 

“My, what large hands have…”

 

His long fingered, pale hands had moved from under the red velvet comforter, pushing it away to reveal the naked flesh of a man.  The large hands grasped her wrists, pulling her onto the bed with a mighty wrench.

 

His body was nude, long, pale, and lean.  She landed upon him as if floating, her knees on either side of his hips…her mound resting just at the base of his long, thick erection.  He held her wrists fast, eyes staring up at her from behind the silver mask.

 

“My, what sharp teeth you have…”

 

Hermione’s eyes traced along the incised teeth on the face of the mask, and she felt a grin curving her lips.

 

“The better to eat you with…my love…” he purred.

 

Hermione had begun rocking against him, without realising it, the underside of his cock brushing against her nubbin…his hands crushing her wrists, trying to deter her from moving.

 

“Shall I eat you, my love?”

 

Even muffled, she could hear the wanton need in his voice.

 

Hermione nodded.

 

Slipping her wrists from his large hands, Hermione leaned over him, crawling up his body, laughing as his hands traced her hips and thighs.  Sliding his mask to his forehead, Hermione kissed him, tongue curling about his, tasting his wickedness…  In the fairytale, the ‘Big Bad Wolf’ had eaten the ‘Grandmother,’ and so she tasted blood on his tongue.

 

Patented Daydream Charms…it was the only way Lucius Malfoy would be ‘eating’ Hermione Granger…on red velvet, a Death Eater’s mask resting halfway on his head like a Halloween mask…devious grin, wicked tongue inside her body, calling her ‘Little Red.’

 

In her mind, Hermione liked to ‘play’ with Lucius Malfoy…and play she did, frequently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 980 words


	51. #51 - Water - Neville/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #51 – Water. ‘The bikini will have to go.’

#51 - Water

* * *

“Too slow, Longbottom!” she called as she treaded water to the rock one hundred meters from the shore.

 

He was letting her win, but at her teasing words, he dunked his head under the water and began to glide through the cool water.  He overtook her easily, even having time to grab her ankle and pull her under. 

 

Surfacing, his hair dripping, his hands helping him to climb up onto the rock, he laughed as she splashed and spluttered below in the water.

 

“No…fair…” she gasped.

 

He chuckled.  She had been the one that had started it all.  They had been teasing each other all afternoon, first with her racing him to the lake from the greenhouses, then daring him to strip out of his boxer shorts to swim naked.  He had done it, and he could feel her eyes upon him.

 

‘The bikini will have to go,’ he had said laughing, slipping into the cool water, careful that she did not see him in his full glory.  ‘To be fair,’ he added, and kept his back turned when she stripped off the skimpy bikini, waiting until she stepped into the water to look at her.

 

The little bay was secluded, and he was sure that none of the staff would notice them.

 

Neville Longbottom lounged on top the warm, flat rock and stretched, water droplets falling from his tanned body.  He shook his head roughly, his tawny brown hair scattering more water onto the dry rock.  He had only turned his eyes away for a moment, the sound of Hermione Granger swimming, and splashing water filling his ears.

 

However, there was a sudden lack of noise, and no sight of Hermione except for rippling water.  Neville crouched on the top of the rock, not thinking that he was nude, but scanning the water for Hermione.

 

She had claimed she was a proficient swimmer.  Neville loved swimming as much as he loved his greenhouses full of life.

 

He started counting as his eyes searched, twenty seconds passed and he stood.

 

“Accio!” he hissed, and from the shore, his wand flew from his denims and into his hand.

 

Perhaps ten meters from the rock, he could see bubbles coming up to the surface.  Placing his wand between his teeth, he flew, diving into the water like a raptor bird, hands grasping.

 

Wrapping a thick arm about her slender waist, he grasped his wand with his free hand.  When he shot up out of the water, Hermione’s limp form against him, he grimaced as he landed on the rock, bare feet slamming into stone. 

 

He glanced about before laying Hermione on her back, making sure none had seen his lithe spelled movement or his nude body.  However, looking down at Hermione, all thoughts left him for a moment. 

 

She was beautiful even though she was not breathing.  Her skin was covered in water droplets, her nipples erect, the curls between her thighs wet and dark.  He appreciated how the sun made her skin glow, but he also knew that he could not hesitate, her lips turning blue from lack of oxygen.

 

He let his cherry wood wand drop to the rock’s surface, cursing under his breath as he tilted her head back and rearranged her arms away from her chest.

 

Neville breathed for her, remembering Pomfrey’s basic first aid tutorial from his Sixth Year.

 

“Breathe.”

 

He counted the chest compressions, and when she coughed up brackish water, he turned her on her side.

 

Of all the things in the world, Neville would have never expected Hermione Granger to nearly drown.

 

The first thing out of her mouth was a curse.

 

She had not been under long, but it had been long enough to have her breathe in a good deal of murky lake water.  She was coughing still when she sat up, her legs dangling off the edge of the rock, her toes in the water.  Neville knelt behind her, rubbing her bare back, ignoring the swell of her bottom and the slope of her waist to her hips.

 

“How mortifying,” she wheezed, pulling her long hair to rest, dripping over one shoulder.  “Remind me to do some basic calisthenics before swimming.”

 

He chuckled, his hands moving to her shoulders, under her hair to hold her steady, pressing her shoulder blades into his chest.

 

The sound of rippling water was only marked by Hermione’s deep breathing and for a moment, Neville wondered if she were too shaken to get into the water again.  He would stay near her from that point on, making sure she was safe.

 

He would protect her by any means, at any time, because…

 

The heat of the day seemed to shake her from her stupor, and slowly her face turned to glance over her shoulder at him.  Her golden eyes were slightly reddened, and he blinked as they did not look at his face, but lower.

 

A blush heated his face.

 

“What a way to try and cool down,” she whispered.  “And thank you.”

 

He glanced away.

 

“Let’s try this again, shall we?” she asked, moving away from him to slip down into the cool water again, turning to look up at him.

 

He shuddered despite the heat, and stood in the sunlight, the rays of light beating down against his skin.  He would not be able to hide his nudity or his semi-erect cock from her now.  Neville mentally shrugged as his eyes moved to her face below him.

 

It was too late now, he had seen her body, saved her life, and she was gazing up at him in a strange wonderment.

 

Neville was not sure what it meant when she looked at him the way she did, but he was not finding it distasteful.

 

With a sigh, he moved to pick up his wand, wondering how he was going to dry it later when the water would try to warp the cherry wood.  He regarded the twig for a moment and kneeling down, placed it on a safe, dry spot on the rock.

 

Hermione was waiting.

 

He would be her lifeguard, if need be, and perhaps something more, if she would allow him.  With a devious grin, he dove over her head into the water, hearing her protest as water splashed into her face.

 

She squealed hoarsely as he grabbed her under the water, surfacing before her.  Pressing her back into the rock, he grinned at her wide eyes and flushed face as his chest pressed into her breasts.

 

“Yes, let’s try this again,” he whispered, his face moving nearer to hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,098 words


	52. #52 - Fire - Draco/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #52 – Fire. Playing with fire always results in...  
> A extra from 'The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man'.

#52 - Fire

* * *

“Kneel.”

 

Hermione complied, her hands steadying herself as she could not see for the blindfold around her head.  She could feel the rug under her bare knees and the blaze of the fire against her back.  Besides those two things, Hermione would not have been sure she was in the groom’s quarters on the Malfoy lands.

 

“Back straight, chin up, that’s a good girl.”

 

His voice was soft and smooth, but every word trickled over her skin like liquid fire.

 

They were playing a game, or so he said.  Draco Malfoy had stripped her bare, blindfolded her, and told her that she was going to learn to appreciate how she made him feel.  With the blindfold, she could not see his strange, mismatched eyes, or his long platinum hair, but she could imagine that the fire was the only light those eyes reflected.

 

“Touch me.”

 

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, but remembered that Draco had expressly suggested she did not.  It was part of the game, he said.  She had felt him circling her slowly, and when he stopped, she was not sure where to reach.  Reach, she did, her arms covered in goose pimples, only the fire keeping her bare skin warm.  She reached before her only to find air.  And then to her right, again, no Draco.  It was at her left that her fingers found him.

 

She felt his thigh, bare and warm in the fire at her left.  Her fingers felt the course hairs of his leg, moving down to his knee.

 

“No.  Higher,” he growled.

 

Hermione licked her lips as her other hand found his other thigh, and slowly her fingers inched up the fronts of his legs.  When he had put the blindfold on, he had been clothed, but as she knelt before him, her fingers memorizing the contours of his thighs, she knew that she would have to swallow her hesitation.

 

This was a game, and his harsh tones were part of that game, weren’t they?

 

His cock was only partially erect when her fingers found it, but at her fiery touch, she felt it twitch in her hands, blood pumping into the organ making it hot between her fingers.

 

“This is where the game begins, my dear…” he growled, “Taste it.”

 

Hermione took a deep breath, rising up on her knees.  She had taken him before in such a manner, not often, but she knew what he liked.  Draco had always been the one who would taste her, relishing her taste rather than have her suck him off for the mere sight of her lips around his cock—or so he claimed.  However, as Hermione moved, her hands braced against his hips, she swallowed his hardening cock, sucking sharply as she withdrew, plunging toward his pelvis again, her nose tickled by the curls wreathing his organ.  He was not fully erect yet, and he had not touched her.  This fact annoyed her.

 

Hermione continued, hoping to hear a sigh, just like the one he usually made when they were in bed—but he did not make a sound.  As far as she knew, he was standing like a statue before her, not even looking at her.  No matter how hard he got, she was not getting any other response.  Even when she grasped his sac roughly, her fingers wrapping about the base—nothing.

 

She did not like this game, and Hermione felt fire rise up from her belly to consume her.  She had felt that internal flame, knowing that his eyes had studied her body with appreciation before he had her kneel on the rug.  She had felt his love, his passion then, why could not she feel it now?

 

And so, in either a manner that Hermione knew would shock or anger Draco, she pulled away, his cock popping from her mouth.  With the speed of a cat on the pounce, she was on her feet, and with a move that she knew would achieve her desired effect, Hermione was sitting on Draco Malfoy’s face.

 

He had protested, cursed, but when his back slammed into the rug, his eyes fixed upon the damp, pink flesh of Hermione’s centre, he said no more.  Instead, it was Hermione who spoke, her hand stroking Draco’s organ in the firelight.  The blindfold was gone, and her hair tumbled about her back and shoulders, the tips brushing Draco’s ribs.

 

“I don’t like games, Draco.  I do not like being teased.  If you want to show me how to pleasure you…you are going to have to learn how to pleasure me,” she sang, swaying her hips over his face.

 

With a particularly rough and intentional tug on his cock, Hermione glanced back to see Draco mouth another curse, his hands lifting to grasp her hips.  With another tug, this time on his sac, Draco moaned into her centre.

 

Hermione tried hard not to make a sound as his tongue laved her flesh, never having much resistance to his exquisite tongue torturing her flesh.  However, as she leaned forward, prying her hips away from his face, Hermione licked the length of his organ, eliciting a hiss.

 

Hermione did not want to play, she did not want to tease, and she was tried of games.  She wanted Draco Malfoy.  If he was unsatisfied with the way she felt, he would have to find himself another woman—another wife.

 

She moved over him, twisting, turning, until she knelt just over his cock, the tip barely lodged inside her.

 

“No more games, Mr. Malfoy,” she hissed as Draco’s hands on her hips tried to force her down against him.

 

Draco’s face was flushed, his usually perfect platinum hair mussed, and the stubble on is sharp chin glistened with her juices.

 

“No more silly rules.”

 

She let her body slip downward slightly.  Draco’s eyes burned into her face, a scowl on his lips.  The frustration was clear and as he tried to thrust up into her body, Hermione slapped her palms painfully into his chest causing him to exhale sharply.

 

Leaning forward, Hermione’s eyes burned back into his.

 

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you?”

 

Hermione lifted her hips so the tip of his cock was barely inside.

 

Draco gritted his teeth.  “Tell me what?”

 

Hermione’s core rippled at the sound of his anger.

 

“If you play with fire…” she began, pulling back to straighten her back and lift her chin.  “…you _always_ get burned.”

 

The sound ripped from his throat was one that delighted Hermione Malfoy as she slammed her hips down against his, riding him in the firelight. 

 

Her husband had so much to learn when it came to pleasuring _her_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,111 words


	53. #53 - Earth - Narcissa/Lucius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #53 – Earth. The earth would sustain her.

#53 - Earth

* * *

It was not much of a secret, as secrets go, but it was hers and she held it close.  Narcissa Malfoy liked working with her hands in the garden.  The feel of earth between her fingers, grit under her manicured nails, nothing besides earth made Narcissa content.

 

A true lady would never dirty her hands in the soil, and would never dig about in the earth without gloves…but Narcissa did not like to think of herself as a ‘lady’ when she worked to plant rose bushes, or tulip bulbs, or herbs.  Narcissa liked to think of herself as practical, though no one would ever know it.  She had been raised to act like a lady, carry herself as if she were royalty.  When, in truth, Narcissa wanted to rip off her fancy clothes and run through the rain some days, or throw tea in the faces of the wives of her husband’s ‘associates.’

 

It was tiring to wear a sour mask of disdain, and it was exhausting trying to sound so disinterested all the time.  Narcissa loved her time alone, magicking out of her corsets, pulling off her fancy shoes and stockings, and walking barefoot through the gardens, the earth warm under her feet.  Bella had always made fun of her when they were girls, playing in the garden behind their London house…calling Narcissa a tomboy, so uncouth, so unfit to bear such a noble name as Black.  Only Dromeda understood…but circumstance had pulled her favourite sister away from her.  If only the world was different, if only they could stand on the earth together, not caring what people would say…

 

“Cissa?”

 

Narcissa gasped at the sound of her husband’s voice from behind the garden wall.  Quickly patting down the soil over one of the jonquil bulbs she had planted.  Rising from her knees, she swiped at the grass on her skirt, noticing that she had only succeeded in wiping dirt into the pale blue taffeta of her dress.

 

“What are you doing?” Lucius asked, amusement clear in his voice.

 

Narcissa had not heard him come so near, and glancing up, blushed at the smirk on her husband’s pale face.

 

“I…nothing…” she said, flustered.

 

“You are planting jonquils…and my, are you ever dirty…” he chuckled, grasping her right hand and lifting it to his eyes.

 

Narcissa turned her eyes away as Lucius inspected her fingers, her fingernails.

 

They had only been married a year, and Lucius Malfoy was nearly a stranger to her.  The wedding had been some staged affair, the ceremony outrageous, her mother whipping up the correct amount of tears, Dromeda not present…

 

Lucius had been kind to her when he was near her, but most times he was not near.  Always busy with one thing or another, and most often with his ‘associates.’

 

“Your sister and her husband will be over for dinner tomorrow,” Lucius said softly, his fingers sliding over hers.

 

Narcissa’s breath came out slowly.  He was getting his own hands dirty by touching hers; she wondered why he didn’t mind.

 

“What say you, wife?” Lucius asked softly moving so he stood next to her, his body sliding behind hers, his breath hot on her neck as he released her hand.

 

“I…” she began, her eyes moving to the grass stains on her skirts.

 

She could not think.  Besides being mortified that Lucius had caught her working in the gardens, his mere presence disturbed her…his closeness.

 

After one year, they had yet to be intimate.  Narcissa lived like a guest in her new home, Lucius not ever touching her when they slept, never initiating anything physical.  For several months, Narcissa wondered if he were even interested in her at all.  She found Lucius quite handsome, even in school she had admired his fine looks and his intelligence, but even then she never approached him.  Now, she was married to him, and she did not know him at all.

 

“I can tell your mad sister and her predatory husband that we are…indisposed…” he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of her left ear.

 

Narcissa shivered, clasping her soil-coated hands before her.

 

“My lovely wife…” he whispered.  “Did you think you could keep me from learning that you have been responsible for planting the lovely flowers in my mother’s dead, chalk gardens?”

 

Narcissa opened her mouth to reply, but found herself in Lucius’ arms, his mouth moving over hers.  She closed her eyes, her dirty hands moving to grasp the front of his white dress shirt.  The last time they had kissed…had been their first time.

 

Lucius was warm against her, his chest wider, his arms stronger than she knew by just looking at him.  He held her fast, his tongue swirling about hers, spreading the taste of tea from his mouth to hers.  She hummed into his mouth, falling against him, soiling the pristine white of his shirt.

 

“Did you think I would mind that you planted jonquils here, lavender in the kitchen garden next to the rosemary bush…or the roses?” he asked, after pulling away from their kiss.  His grey eyes glittered with mirth.  “ _Narcissus jonquilla_ , a fitting flower for Lady Malfoy,” he whispered, brushing at a smudge of earth on her cheek.

 

Narcissa smiled tightly.

 

“You don’t have to hide from me, Cissa, I am not going to scold you,” Lucius mumbled before pressing a kiss between her pale brows.  “The earth you stand upon is yours; you may do what you want with it.”

 

Her smile released itself, and for the first time, she knew her husband would always see her true face, her true self.  In time, she would love her husband as much as she loved the earth, for both would sustain her in the years to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 958 words


	54. #54 - Air - Marcus/Katie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #54 – Air. She was his goddess of the air.

#54 - Air

* * *

 

 

When the Bludger’s Bat hit him in the head a second time, he kicked Warrington off his broom and immediately landed.

 

Warrington had managed to land without breaking his neck, and Marcus scowled as blood trickled down his face.

 

“Damn it, Flint, get back up here!” Montague shouted.

 

Marcus Flint let his hand and finger fly as he threw his broom under a tree at the edge of the clearing, falling heavily to the ground cradling his head.  The sound of footsteps on the grass startled him as the impromptu game in the air above went on without him.

 

“Don’t move,” a voice whispered, and he felt hands rest on his wide shoulders, a slight body pressing into his back.

 

Magic trickled over his scalp where the bat had struck him, and soon the initial sting of bleeding and broken skin faded.

 

“Warrington has not played in so long; I’m surprised he’s hitting anything at all, let alone this big head of yours.”

 

He closed his eyes as the person moved to kneel before him producing a dampened handkerchief to wipe the blood from his thick brow.  A cool hand ruffled his long, dark hair, brushing his cheek softly.

 

“At least your team isn’t beating each other senseless, Kate.”

 

Katie Flint chuckled and Marcus opened his eyes to look at his pretty wife.

 

Overhead, Angelina Weasley shouted to Ginny Potter, a cryptic word to begin performing some manoeuver or another.  Marcus could not look long, his head hurting.  He surely had a concussion.

 

Whoever had the bright idea to play Quidditch during the school reunion was a bloody idiot, in his opinion.

 

“You are starting to look green, luv,” Katie said, pressing a hand to his now clean forehead.  “Let’s get you back in the shade.”

 

Marcus sighed, letting Katie help him to his feet, leading him under the oak tree, sitting next to him against the trunk.  From under the tree, he could not see all of the game, but he could see Malfoy arguing with Potter about where the Snitch was.

 

“We’re getting to old to fly, Kate,” he murmured.

 

Katie snorted.  “Fifty-four is old?  Since when?”

 

Marcus closed his eyes and swallowed thickly, a wave of nausea sweeping through him.  He could hear Wood shouting to Ron Weasley to relieve him soon or ‘there will be hell to pay.’

 

Across the clearing, he could hear the children and the grandparents shouting instructions to the players above, and somewhere among those voices was his son Julius, cheering for George Weasley to beat the Bludger in Goyle’s direction.

 

“The kids should be playing, not us,” he grumbled.  “The air is theirs now.”

 

Katie was pressed into his side, frowning, he knew.  Katie had also taken a ‘time-out’ when Alicia Spinnet tossed the Quaffle a little too hard into her belly.  They were too soft to be able to cut the air as they used to.

 

“It is still fun, though,” Katie whispered before pressing a kiss into his temple.  “We are all terrible, well…maybe not Wood, he’s still great…”

 

Marcus wanted to roll his eyes, but he was sure he would vomit.

 

“And maybe Potter, but he is used to flying all the time being an Auror.  And, you are still great, Marcus,” she whispered, her hand brushing over his chest, petting his jumper.

 

“Flying is one thing, Quidditch is another.”

 

She kissed his temple again.  “True.”

 

He tried breathing in through his nose, but it only made him feel more nauseous.  Gods, he wondered if someone had the foresight to bring a Quidditch outfitted first aid kit.  Somehow, he doubted it.  In such a kit, there was always a phial to deal with the immediate effects of a concussion.

 

“Open your eyes, Flint,” Katie snapped.

 

Marcus complied, startled, and wished his head would either explode and be done with it or Katie find something to make his head stop hurting as it would explode.

 

“I think I want to go home.”

 

She moved, standing first, frowning down at him, her hands on her hips.  For a moment, she looked just as he remembered from Slytherin/Gryffindor Quidditch games, only with bigger breasts.  She wore the pads the same way, even her jumper had been Charmed the same shade of red.

 

When she sat down on his outstretched legs, he grunted.  He wanted to ask her what she thought she was doing, but his jaw felt as if it were locked at the hinge.  She was face to face with him, her hands moving to grasp his loose black hair falling to the tops of his shoulders.  There were strands of silver about his temples, he knew, and despite having his teeth fixed and growing out of his ‘trollish’ phase, he was by no means handsome.  The manner in which she looked at him, however, always made him feel otherwise.

 

Katie needed to be in the air, he thought.  She was beautiful no matter where she was or what she was doing, but in the air, she was a goddess.

 

“I’d ask if you wanted to go off together for a while, fly over the Forest, but the way you’re looking at me makes me wonder if I should take you up to the castle and to the Hospital Wing.”

 

He swallowed thickly again, as warm wind blew at her long chestnut coloured hair. 

 

He kissed her, even though his head burned and his breath came out wrong.  His rough hands cupped her face; tasting the lingering taste of some dessert they all had eaten an hour before during the picnic.  In his mind’s eye, which was slightly out of focus with the concussion, all he could see was Katie flying as she once had years ago. 

 

“Oh, Kate,” he whispered, leaning back into the tree again.

 

He never called her ‘Katie,’ it was only ever ‘Kate,’ or ‘Kate, goddess of wind,’ or ‘Kate, my Ocypete.’ 

 

She brushed his hair from his face, pressing a kiss into his brow.

 

“Never say we’re too old to fly, my Boreas, we are the wind and we need the air to be together.”

 

He chuckled.  “Of course.”

 

They had met in the air, they had fallen in love in the air, and in the air they would remain, as long as Warrington stayed away with the Bludger’s bat…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,055 words


	55. #55 - Spirit - George-Fred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #55 – Spirit. He would always be ingrained on his soul.

#55 - Spirit

* * *

 

 

There was a cliché, he knew, but it was fitting.  He had lost a part of himself in more ways than one.  Despite the ear, something he could easily live without, there was something even more important missing.

 

Fred.

 

George Weasley sat in the large bed they had shared in their flat over the shop, leaning back into the headboard, hugging a pillow.  The War was over, there was still general celebration in the Alley below, but George sat alone.  Occasionally a Whiz-bang would light the room, casting his shadow on the bed.

 

He had begged off from the celebration, and returned to the flat.  Ron had seemed worried at first, but when Hermione grasped his hand, pulling him away with a knowing look to George, Ron only clapped a hand on his shoulder.

 

‘Take care,’ was what Ron said.

 

Take care…

 

Fred had always taken care of him, and vice versa.

 

He had managed to maintain a sense of composure during the funeral, but broke down later, alone.  A week had passed since then.

 

If he squinted his eyes hard enough, he could almost see Fred leaning back into the footboard, regarding him with a strange smile.  If he cupped his hand behind his missing ear, he could almost hear him.

 

George sighed, closing his eyes for a moment.

 

Fred was more than a twin brother and business partner, and Fred’s side of the bed had been cold for a while now.

 

 _You’ll be alright, Forge_.

 

He buried his face into the pillow he was clutching, Fred’s voice, very much like his own, whispering through his head.

 

_I will always be with you._

 

George reacted, throwing the pillow to the footboard, face twisting.

 

“Don’t torture me!” he roared, leaning from the headboard to the place where Fred usually sat when they talked on the bed.

 

_Always be with you…_

 

George jumped up from the bed to gaze out the window behind the centrally placed bed, gazing down at the merry-making in the Alley below.

 

_As long as you live, I will always be with you._

 

George slammed a fist into the windowsill.  It was not good enough, Fred should have lived, should be hugging him now.  Fred should wrap his arms about George’s waist and kiss his neck as they watched the Whiz-bangs glide like coloured ribbons along the Alley.

 

_Always love you…_

 

For an instant, a phantom sensation brushed against the side of his neck, like a kiss.  George closed his eyes, letting his forehead rest against the glass pane of the window.

 

“Please…” he whispered.

 

The sensation moved past his ruined ear to the nape of his neck, along his spine to his hips.  Phantom hands grasped his waist, and odd warmth pressed into George’s back.

 

_As long as you need me…_

 

“I do,” George whispered, the sensation running to the front of his denims.

 

His face slackened, his eyes fluttering as ghostly cool fingers slipped past the waistband, sliding against the crimson hair between his hips.

 

_As long as you love me…_

 

George groaned, half from the feeling of a strange touch, half from grief.  “Always,” he whimpered.

 

Already tears were leaking from the corners of his eyes.

 

A ghostly hand cupped his cheek, but George kept his eyes closed, afraid that if he opened them, the airy, yet familiar, touch would disappear.  The kiss pressed into his mouth was soft, sending chills down his spine.  Even as he felt airy fingers wrap about him in the front of his denims, George kept his eyes shut.

 

_I love you._

 

The hand was gone; the imprint of a kiss gone from his mouth, and George opened his eyes.

 

He was alone, but not truly.

 

Fred would always be with him, not a ghost, or a phantom, but a spirit that was engrained deep inside George for all time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 641 words


	56. #56 - Breakfast - Cho/Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #56 – Breakfast. Breakfast by Harry Potter was a culinary reward.
> 
> Companion piece to #45 – Guilt.

#56 - Breakfast

* * *

 

 

Cho awoke to the smell of frying bacon.  She sat up in bed, looking around, wondering where she was, and realising that she was in her own flat.  The smell of bacon…was the flat on fire?

 

Wrapping a sheet around her, she padded toward the kitchen, peeking around the corner to see a shirtless man with untidy black hair humming to himself while breaking eggs to place next to the large pan of bacon.  Cho was slow to recall why there was a man in her flat, and then she looked about her small living room.

 

Articles of clothing were thrown about, on the floor, on the sofa, even a pair of underwear hanging over the table lamp.  It was then she remembered.

 

Harry Potter was standing in a pair of boxer shorts; making breakfast, toast popping up at that very instant, startling her.

 

They had been to lunch, had reconnected after several years, and Cho remembered, with a blush, pulling him into her flat.  It was an assault, almost, the way she tumbled with him into the floor, kissing his mouth.  Everything escalated from that point.

 

As she watched Harry’s back as he moved to pull the bread from the toaster, placing them on two chipped plates, she smirked.  It was not exactly how she wanted things to go.  She had fully expected him to leave as soon as she was asleep.

 

Then again, Cho did not know Harry Potter as well as she thought.  Beneath the polite exterior was something more, something darker, something passionate.  She knew she had bruises on her hips and thighs where his hands grasped her.  She could feel that her lips were still swollen from kisses.

 

Harry continued to hum as he flipped the bacon and eggs.  Cho could only admire how his muscles rippled at the motion.  Slipping back into the bedroom, she sat on the edge of her low bed, blinking in the morning sunlight coming in from the windows on her side of the bed.  The white sheets and blanket were rumpled; there was another lingering piece of clothing near the door.

 

Cho brushed her fingers through her mussed hair and then touched her lips.

 

She was not sure what to make of Harry Potter or his motivations.  He was still a celebrated figure in the Wizarding community, and she was still nobody.

 

However, the way he responded to her advances, it still surprised her.  He had acquainted himself with every inch of her body, overwhelming her senses, bringing her to a mind-blowing climax several times over.

 

He made her feel beautiful.

 

“Eggs, bacon, toast, coffee, sound appealing?”

 

He was standing in the door, hands grasping the jambs, gazing at her.  He was not wearing his glasses.  The sound of his voice startled her, and the sheet slipped from her hands.

 

Cho blushed as Harry’s emerald eyes moved over her skin, to her small breasts, to her tight belly and along the curve of her back.

 

“Then, again, if you’re not hungry…”

 

She snorted a laugh and pressed her hand to her mouth, embarrassed.  He chuckled, a nice deep chuckle that made her toes curl into the rug under her feet.

 

The guilt she had felt was gone, as if Vanished, and she let her hand drop to her lap.

 

“There are such things as Stasis Charms,” she whispered, narrowing her eyes at Harry, but a smile curling her lips.

 

He moved, gliding across the room, and suddenly she was in his arms, his hands peeling away the sheet wrapped about her waist.

 

“Astute suggestion,” he muttered, his eyes glittering in the morning light as he settled her over him, knees in the mattress, his erection pressing against her through his boxer shorts.

 

Breakfast, made by Harry Potter, was a perhaps a culinary reward, but quickly forgotten as he grasped her face and kissed her soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 646 words


	57. #57 - Lunch - Hermone/Percy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #57 – Lunch. He wanted her for lunch.

#57 - Lunch

* * *

 

Tea and sandwiches, that had been the norm for the past three years.  Hermione Granger ate slowly, enjoying the sandwich, which had become a staple in her diet.  Across the desk, sitting back in his padded leather chair, the Deputy Minister of Magic did not seem to enjoy his lunch.  Instead, Hermione was trying her best to ignore the weight of his turquoise eyes upon her collarbone, visible above the neckline of her dress.

 

It was warm in the office, and Hermione had doffed her usual robes of dark red (or plum depending on how the light settled upon the fabric), a signifier of her position as a barrister and a member of the Wizengamot.  She and the Deputy Minister were chairs of conflicting factions in the courts, but every day, for the last three years, they took lunch together, usually arguing…or laughing.

 

Hermione shifted in her seat, reaching for her tea and slowly bringing the rim of the china to her lips.  She could feel his eyes now upon her lips.

 

She had felt his eyes upon her many times through the three years they would take lunch, but today, mid-afternoon in the first week of July, she wondered why his gaze felt so different.

 

Finishing her sandwich, she washed it down with the last of her tea.  Their lunch break was long, and most often they ate first and then ‘got down to business,’ which meant discussing the agenda for the afternoon or cases tried in the morning.

 

Turning her attention to the Deputy Minister’s face, she smiled blandly, trying not to make it known that his gaze unsettled her.

 

The youngest Deputy Minister in an age, Percy Weasley had the air of authority.  When he first began working for the Ministry, he was nothing more than a Fudge sycophant, but now…he was next to Minister Kingsley Shacklebolt…and no longer a lackey.  Percy Weasley had come into his own…and demanded respect.

 

He had grown to be a handsome man, long crimson hair, luminescent turquoise eyes behind silver framed glasses, wide shoulders, and a toned physique that many of the female office workers found particularly attractive.  But Percy Weasley was stoic, humble, and at times frightening…especially in court.

 

Hermione respected him.  Of course, Hermione was not someone to be overlooked either…

 

“Can I say something to you, Miss Granger?  Something that you will not misconstrue as possible sexual harassment?” he asked softly, setting his tea on his desk, leaning back into his chair to weave his fingers together.

 

Hermione blinked.  “I…I suppose?” she uttered with uncertainty

 

“For three years, you and I have been having lunch, and for three years, you have sat just where you are…legs crossed, the top button of her dress undone, your hair let down.  At first, I thought you were trying to seduce me in some coy manner…but now I know that you are too innocent to ever conceive to tempt me to do something untoward…”

 

Hermione blinked again, her lips parting.  She was…too stunned to speak.

 

“But the problem is this:  I want to do something untoward, and I do not think I can endure another day without informing you, Miss Granger,” he said with the same formality he used in court.

 

Unable to form a retort, Hermione bit the inside of her cheek.  Her mind was whirling, but part of her knew that Percy Weasley’s feelings, conveyed with the clinical manner in which she had grown accustomed, were honest…and tightly controlled.

 

“What did you have in mind, Deputy Minister?” she finally asked, her breathing become short due, in part, to her unease, and, in part, in wondering if it would take another three years for Percy Weasley to comment on the unresolved professional and sexual tension between them.

 

Percy grinned, the first real expression of his true self she had seen in a long time.

 

“I would not mind ripping that drab dress off you, bend you over my desk, and driving my cock into you…” he whispered, his turquoise eyes shimmering from behind his wire frame glasses.

 

Hermione’s belly tightened at the sound of his voice, and the implication of his words.

 

“I want to fuck you on my desk, Hermione,” he growled in a whisper, his voice changing into something deeper, baser, more feral than the voice he used in court…and far more frightening.

 

“I want to make you want me as much as I want you right now…”

 

Percy’s sharp eyes moved to her bare knees just visible from the hem of her dress and to the motion of her thighs rubbing together slowly.  Hermione slapped a hand to her lap and was still.

 

“N-now is not a good time…Depu-Percy…” she rasped, closing her eyes, angry that her body was so responsive to the sound of his voice.  “M-maybe after lunch…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 802 words


	58. #58 - Dinner - Neville/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #58 – Dinner. She had underestimated him, a mistake she would not repeat.

58 - Dinner

* * *

 

When he pulled his hands away from her eyes, she could not help but sigh at the beauty she saw.  Neville Longbottom had created an atmosphere for their dinner, bringing her into the greenhouses.  In the middle of a circle of blooming flowers and greenery, he had placed a small table and two chairs.  Tall candelabra lit the area, accompanied by a full moon overhead, shining down through the glass panes.

 

He led her to her chair, helping her sit, while he glided around the table to seat himself.  Hermione Granger could not stop smiling.  She had never pegged Neville Longbottom for a romantic.

 

Dinner consisted of all of her favourite dishes, magically appearing and disappearing with the courses.  Hermione wondered how Neville knew that she liked lamb chops with raspberry sauce.  By dessert, they had spoken little, though their eyes had lingered long, locked in some wordless conversation.

 

The dinner was to be informal, he had told her the day before, and yet, she felt sorely out of place in her summery skirt and gauzy blouse.  The flora was spectacular, orchids, unique roses, large bearded irises; Hermione knew she could not name all the flowers or the scents surrounding her.

 

Neville sipped on red wine, his hazel eyes moving over her face.  Hermione, for the first time, blushed.  There was something predatory in his gaze.

 

Beneath a pale blue polo shirt and clean denims, Neville’s skin glowed a healthy brown in the candlelight.  Hermione had to admire his physique, something she had only noticed once before then.

 

Picking at her dessert of pot de crème, Hermione was almost too full to eat more.  It was not just that the food was delicious, it was Neville.

 

Neville had kept her company during the summer months between terms, and it was not until that particular summer that she saw him as a man and not just a friend.  She wondered why it was that she had not noticed how he looked at her before.  Maybe it was her tumultuous relationship with Harry and Ron, maybe it was her single-mindedness with teaching and research, but in the end, all that mattered was that she _did_ notice him.

 

“What are you thinking about?” he asked as she held her wine to her lips, but did not drink.

 

She blinked, lowering her glass.  “I…”

 

Hermione was not exactly sure what she was thinking about other than how the sight of Neville’s smiling face made her feel.  It was not something she really wanted to say aloud.  She was attracted to him in a way that would have seemed inappropriate if they were to stay friends only.

 

He chuckled, flicking his wrist over the table, Vanishing the dishes save the wine glasses and the bottle.  Hermione leaned back into her chair, head cocked to the side.  A romantic dinner, copious amounts of wine—Hermione had a sudden thought.

 

“I was thinking that the summer is almost over, and yet again, I have failed to make myself known,” he said refilling their glasses with the remainder of the wine.

 

Hermione could only stare for a moment, before leaning forward and taking up her wine again.  “Oh?”

 

He smiled warmly over the rim of his glass.  “It did help that you noticed I existed…”

 

Guilt cut her and she looked away, into the greenery.

 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled.  “That was unfair.”

 

He sighed.

 

“I realised that I am not forward and I rarely say what I’m thinking…  It takes a bit of wine to loosen my tongue. 

 

And since I’m the one talking, I’ll just say it. 

 

I wanted you.”

 

Her eyes flashed to his face even as he drank down the rest of his wine, Vanishing his glass then the bottle until all that was left on the table was the cloth.  Hermione drank her wine, unsure of how to react.

 

His words were sincere, albeit sudden.  He leaned his elbows onto the table, resting his chin on his hands.

 

“I want you, and I’ve probably startled you by saying it…”

 

Hermione finished her wine, feeling a bit warm in the face.  “No, I…  It’s just…” she trailed.

 

“Just tell me that I am not going anywhere with you, and let me know for sure,” he chuckled, sadly.

 

Hermione set her glass on the table, and met his eyes, mimicking his posture.  “It’s not that, Neville, definitely not that.”

 

His hazel eyes sparkled in the candlelight, and his smile remained.  “Then?”

 

Hermione took a deep breath.  “I have been a horrible friend…”

 

“On the contrary,” Neville protested, “you have been a better friend to me that I would have ever dared dream, but…”

 

“But we need something more?” she finished.

 

He nodded.

 

There was movement, after a moment, and Hermione was not sure how she ended upon the small dinner table, her wineglass in shards on the greenhouse floor.  All she did know was Neville Longbottom had another hidden talent besides Herbology, swimming, and a body worthy to grace the covers of a women’s smut magazine.  He kissed her so soundly, so deeply, and so expertly, that Hermione felt her toes curl in her slip-ons.

 

Clothes fell away, piece by piece, and every patch of exposed skin was caressed and kissed.  Hermione could only either stare up through the glass roof to the moon, or into his deep, fiery eyes.

 

“Tell me you want this,” he whispered huskily, one hand rolling her right nipple between rough fingers, the other trailing between them, brushing against her aroused centre.

 

Hermione’s hands grasped his thick upper arms, her legs dangling off the edge of the dinner table, her hips just on the edge where Neville stood between her knees.  At the dampened swipe of the head of his cock against her belly, she inhaled sharply.

 

“I want this, I want you,” she whispered as he rubbed his cock along her folds.

 

He kissed her shortly, poising himself at her entrance.

 

“Good.”

 

Hermione’s back arched off the table at his sudden penetration.  She did not scream, though her mouth was open, her eyes slammed shut.  Her frame shook, and Neville had to move yet.  He leaned over her, gathering her body up into his arms so that he held her tight.

 

Whatever preconceived notions Hermione had had of Neville were shattered.  He was not gentle with her, but it did not matter.  Passion built, surpassing simple arousal, and Hermione wondered what other misconceptions she had of the man fucking her like a god in the moon and candle light, surrounded by his precious plants and rich soil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,097 words


	59. #59 - Food - Lily/James

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #59 – Food. He wanted to play with his food.

#59 - Food

* * *

 

 

“Nutella?”

 

Lily Potter smirked toward the kitchen cabinets, placing tins of vegetables on the shelves from the grocer’s bag.  She listened to her husband unscrew the cap on the jar and sniff the contents.

 

“Not chocolate?”

 

“Nope,” she said, enunciating the ‘p.’

 

She turned quickly, growling as James Potter dug a finger into the hazelnut concoction and raised it to his mouth.  Lily had returned from Surrey, after a quick visit to her parents.  Escorting her mother to the market, Lily decided to pick a few things herself to take back to Godric’s Hollow.  It was not often that they had ‘Muggle’ food in the house.  She had been correct in assuming her husband would find the Nutella first.

 

“Filthy habit, Potter,” she teased as his mouth finally closed over the caramel brown coloured confection.

 

He hummed, his spectacled eyes flashing in mirth.

 

“…good,” he mumbled, the Nutella thick in his mouth.  Lily almost imagined her husband drinking straight out a milk carton if they had had a refrigerator.  The closest thing they had was a Charmed pantry to keep perishable items cool.

 

“Is it now?” Lily continued to tease, leaning back into the kitchen counter, her hand smoothing her dress over her swollen belly.

 

James nodded, dipping his finger into the jar again, grinning with brown teeth.  Lily chuckled as he took a step nearer, wriggling his finger toward her mouth.  She opened her mouth to taste; however, found that her husband’s finger was smearing Nutella over her lips.

 

Before she could protest, she was in his arms, a sticky finger brushing into her back where the sundress dipped.  It was hot in the house, as it was outside and James’ closeness only made her sweat more.  Lily grunted as he pressed tighter against her belly, she was due soon, but it did not stop him from licking the rich spread from her lips.  He kissed her, and Lily sighed, tasting Nutella and the flavour that was distinctly James’.

 

Pulling back, James immediately began sniggering, and Lily frowned, narrowing her emerald eyes.

 

“You have some Nu-something in your nose.”

 

She knew, she would feel it and smell it.

 

“I hate you, James Potter,” she grumbled, wiping her face, and licking her lips.

 

James continued to laugh, reaching for the jar of Nutella again.  Quick as a flash, Lily snatched the jar, shocking her ex-Seeker husband and shoved three fingers into the jar, pulling back a good portion of the confection.  James only blinked as she, feeling particularly vindictive, wiped her fingers across his face and his glasses.

 

He had stopped laughing.

 

“Lil, that was…”

 

She kissed him, hard.  When she began eating away the Nutella from his husband’s face, she pushed him back into the counter, her hands in the waistband of his denims.  He could only grunt, feeling the hazelnut stickiness in his y-fronts.  Lily pulled his glasses away and set them on the counter, leaning back to gaze up into his eyes.

 

“You started this,” she hissed, wrenching open his pants, and going to her knees.

 

James’ head was thrown back, untidy hair flying, and he groaned as his beautiful, glowing, pregnant wife tasted his cock along with a good slathering of what was to be his new favourite sweet spread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 544 words


	60. #60 - Drink - James/Sirius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #60 – Drink. Whiskey and celebrations always brought him back.

#60 - Drink

* * *

 

 

The celebration had died down, and the most of the party had went their respective ways out of Sirius’ London flat, but the man of the evening was sprawled on the couch.  Lily was pregnant, and James Potter had Floo’d his friends to descend upon Sirius for a night of revelry and the drinking of unhealthy quantities of alcohol.  In the end, the evening had proved pleasurable. 

 

Sirius sighed as he lowered the volume of the gramophone, and picked up a half empty bottle of whiskey tipped precariously on the kitchen table.  He was thoroughly soused, but it did not stop him from saving a few sips of whiskey from being wasted.  Stumbling into the living room to where his best friend lounged, Sirius threw back the bottle and drank the remaining amber liquid.

 

“Oi, Padfoot…” James croaked, the lower half of his body in the floor, the upper half upon the worn-out Chesterfield couch.

 

“Yeah?” Sirius answered, the now empty bottle slipping from his fingers to the floor before he fell back into the couch, inches from his friend.

 

“Do you remember our Seventh year?”

 

Sirius quirked a dark brow, looking down at James’ flushed face.  His glasses were barely upon his nose, and in a drunken motion, Sirius plucked the spectacles from James’ face and placed them upon his own nose…barking a laugh.

 

James grinned.  “Do you?”

 

“Sure…it was not too long ago, mate.”

 

James nodded vigorously, sliding completely into the floor, leaning back against the couch, his head tilted back into the seat cushion.

 

“Remember the night after the Quidditch match where I caught the Snitch in the first five minutes of the game?”

 

Sirius chuckled, his eyes trying hard to see through James’ glasses.  “Yeah…that was funny.”

 

“Remember that we got drunk off that swill Peter had?”

 

Sirius laughed again…honestly he did not remember that part.

 

“Remember what we did?”

 

Sirius rolled his eyes upward, trying to remember.  For some reason he remembered nothing and attributed it having drank too much. 

 

“You don’t remember?”

 

Sirius shook his head, casting his eyes about for another bottle of whiskey.  He moved to rise from the couch, but ended up tumbling to the floor as James flew to knock Sirius to his back.

 

“Whoa, mate…what are you…”

 

James was chuckling as he crawled atop Sirius’ body, sitting upon Sirius’ thighs.  Sirius’ voice was stifled as James pressed his lips into his. Sirius could only stare up at his best friend through James’ glasses…only able to see his deep blue eyes.  Earlier that evening, James had voiced his desire that his child have Lily’s eyes…

 

James hummed into the kiss and slowly, very slowly, Sirius closed his eyes.

 

Perhaps it had been the alcohol and the kiss, but Sirius suddenly remembered the night James had mentioned.  Seventh year, drunk…kissing James on his bed in the dormitory, the curtains shut around them.  There were no questions about Lily…no questions at all.

 

Sirius opened his eyes, and grasped James’ arms, rolling them over so that Sirius was on top, just as he had been that night years ago.

 

James chuckled, pointing up at the glasses on Sirius’ face…and Sirius grinned.

 

“I remember now,” he purred trying to sound less drunk, maybe predatory, but failed miserably.

 

Clothing was discarded, but Sirius still wore James’ glasses as he licked a trail around James’ ring of flesh…his cock swelling at the sounds his friend made—whimpers, pleas.

 

That night in the dormitory, James had been the one to lick at Sirius’ flesh, muttering how badly he wanted to fuck his Pureblood ass, a son of the ‘noble house of Black.’

 

“Oh, _I_ remember…” Sirius whispered as the tip of his cock pressed into James. 

 

On his hands and knees, James glanced back at his friend, his mouth open in a gasp

 

Sirius winced as he thrust inside, James choking out a cry, his unruly black hair flying as his head was thrown back.  Clenching his teeth, Sirius hissed as he began shallowly to work James’ ass…every thrust reaching deeper, pushing harder.

 

“Yes…just like that…” James panted as Sirius’ hips rocked in a smooth motion, his cock sliding in and out of his best friend.

 

Leaning toward James’ back, Sirius grasped James’ flaccid organ, causing the man to howl at the contact.  Fist closing about James’ flesh, Sirius pumped in time with his thrusts…and soon James’ own hand slapped at Sirius’.

 

“Oh gods…” James groaned as Sirius fell back on his haunches, James following, his hand working his cock furiously as Sirius grunted thrusts up into James.  “More…more!” James roared as his body stiffened, and Sirius could just make out through the glasses a forcefully stream of white arc through the air.

 

Sirius complied with James’ heated request and pushed harder, moved faster, biting his lips as he felt his sac tighten.

 

“Fuck…” he hissed, pushing at James so that his cock slid free of his body.

 

James turned, and grasping the base of Sirius’ cock whimpering as cum splattered his face…his hair…his chest.

 

Sirius growled as James stroked the last bit of his ejaculate from his sore cock, falling back to lay on the floor before the couch.  Sirius closed his eyes, trying to breathe, and listened to James as he dressed, and approached to pull his glasses from Sirius’ face.

 

Sirius listened as James left the flat without a goodbye, and he smiled.

 

It was probably only because they had been drunk, but Sirius knew James would instigate another situation after his child was born—drink and celebrations always sent James to him…always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 929 words


	61. #61 - Winter - Hermione/Severus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #61 – Winter. Leaving him to freeze to death would serve the git right.

#61 - Winter

* * *

 

Severus Snape weighed much more than he looked, and his added weight on her back made her arctic books sink deeper into the snow.  Hermione Granger did not have time to dig her wand out from under the layers of pelts, arctic coat, and jumper.  She could have Levitated him if the need to get indoors were not so urgent.

 

The snow was coming down in curtains of huge white flakes, and she could barely see where she was going when the wind blew against her face.  She wished she had an extra arm to wipe off her tinted goggles, but Hermione was sure that her cabin was near, set into the mountainside in the shelter of majestic pine trees.

 

Severus Snape was unconscious, dead weight, and underdressed for the sub-zero temperature and wind chill.  Hermione was sure that he had not meant to come here, to the Canadian Rockies in the dead of an unusually frigid winter.  He had been following her for months as she bounced from one predefined safe house to another, and that day, as she was hiking to see how bad the pass was blocked with snow, he had found her.

 

It was clear by his reaction to the snow that he had not anticipated the cold.  Hermione had yet to find what spell he was using to track her, and was quite annoyed that he had found her, again.

 

She knew that part of a Stunner hit him, but it was the cold that made him collapse, unconscious.  He had fallen face first into the snow and by the time she trudged to him, rolling him over, his thin lips were blue.

 

Hermione considered leaving him to freeze to death; it would serve the git right.

 

His boots dragged in the snow behind her as she took one agonizingly slow step after another, finally visually locating the cabin.  With a grunt, she dragged him up the icy stairs, using her well-padded bum to push the door open.  When she finally had him inside, she slammed the door shut, lifting her goggles from her eyes.

 

Severus Snape’s face was far too pale, his lips bluish, snow making his long inky hair white and damp as it melted in the warmth of the cabin.  She left him on the floor for a moment, shedding her wolverine pelt, a gift from her nearest neighbor ten miles down the mountain, then her arctic coat, hat, goggles, gloves, and finally boots until she stood over Severus Snape in a pair of unattractive Muggle thermal underwear.  The exertion of dragging Severus had made her sweat through her ‘long johns’ and slowly she stripped those off as well, placing them over a folding drying rack near the raging fireplace. 

 

Finding her wand in an inner pocket of her coat, where she had left it after placing it there to see to her pursuer, she cast a Levitation Charm on Severus, moving him to the hook rug before the fireplace next to the drying rack.  In only her plain white knickers, she studied his face in the firelight.

 

He was shivering, and she was sure he was suffering from hypothermia.

 

It would do no good to let him die.  She would not be able to bury him properly until the thaw.  However, keeping him alive and captive in a remote cabin in the middle of nowhere in the middle of winter was not such a bad idea, as long as the pantry stores held out…

 

With a flick of her wand, she undressed him, bit by bit, the articles of clothing flying through the air to hang on the drying rack.  When she had him down to his boxer shorts, she could see how badly the cold had affected his body.  His fingers were red, as were his toes, his hooked nose, and cheeks.  Crouching next to him, she let her hand move over his face to his chest.

 

Warming Charms floated over his skin, but were not as affective as she would have liked.  Sighing, she flicked her wand again to remove his last bit of clothing.  She did not let her eyes linger long on his flaccid penis, or the dark curls around the flesh, instead, she summoned a quilt from the bed built in to the back wall of the cabin, below a half buried window only allowing a view of snow.

 

The quilt flew into her hand, and rising she curled her thumb around her wand to lift the quilt to allow it fall over Severus’ body.  A few more Warming Charms, Summoning a few pillows and Transfiguring the hook rug under her feet and his body into a soft mattress, Hermione sighed again.

 

Slipping under the ‘log-cabin’ quilt, Hermione pressed her body against his; placing her wand under her pillow next to the one she had placed under his damp head.  Lifting his left arm to shift against his side, Hermione ground her teeth as he made a soft noise.  He would be ill for a while, she supposed, delirious. 

 

Her left leg wrapped about his, her pelvis pressing into his hip as she half lay on and across his body.  She could almost imagine his body sucking away her warmth.  Tucking the quilt around them to form a cocoon of warmth, she laid her head on his shoulder, eyes staring at the fire.

 

Severus had chased her all over the globe from Istanbul to Wellington, Lima to an obscure place in the Canadian Rockies.  Hermione had hoped the dark, acerbic man would get the hint that she was trying to keep away, alas…

 

“Granger…”

 

Hermione stiffened, glancing up at his face.  He was not awake, but he was delirious.  The delirium came quicker than she thought.

 

She would have to leave, perhaps, as soon as he was not so close to dying.  Hermione wondered if an old friend in Cairo still had a house in the Congo.  Severus would have a hard time finding her there.

 

“Kill me…”

 

She laid her head down again, placing her cheek over his scarred chest and sluggish beating heart.

 

Hermione had had several weeks of solitude in the mountains, but she knew it would not last.  Severus was relentless.

 

“Won’t say yes…”

 

She considered Silencing him.  Everything out of his mouth hurt her and made the guilt she buried resurrect itself.  Hermione could not leave him in such a precarious state, but she itched to go.

 

As long as he chased, she would run.  Hermione was beginning to forget why she was running, but when Severus Snape would appear before her, yelling at her to take his hand and come back, she would remember all too well. 

 

They were to be married.  ‘Marriage’ was what the new version of the Ministry was calling it.  It was more like ‘slavery.’  Hermione supposed it was to be expected, as the War had not ended in her favour.  Voldemort was dead, but there were others who took his place.  As a Muggle-born, she was ‘given’ to the ‘war heroes,’ former Death Eaters who had control over Britain. 

 

‘At least I would be kind to you,’ Severus had said on several occasions when he caught up with her.  ‘You would not expect less than cruelty if Dolohov would have won the bid on you.’

 

It made Hermione physically ill to think of Anton Dolohov, bids, and the fact that many of her friends, Muggle-borns, and Half-bloods, were now used as ‘spouses’ or ‘partners’ to former Death Eaters and other elite in the new Ministry.

 

With Severus incapacitated, Hermione considered slitting his throat in his sleep.

 

No.  No, Hermione would not harm the man or take his life.

 

Despite her flight, despite her derision, Hermione Granger actually cared for the man shivering under her.  He protected her.  If it were not Severus who pursued her to try to convince her to return with him, it would be others who would exterminate her for trying to run.  With Severus, she had a chance at life, and chance to convince him to let her disappear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,348 words


	62. #62 - Spring - Bill/Fleur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #62 – Spring. Spring made her blood burn.

#62 - Spring

* * *

“Fleur!”

 

Bill’s voice rang out, but she could not see him as she ran.  Her laughter was quiet, but she knew that he was on her trail.  Through a copse of trees near the River Otter, Fleur Weasley glided along to the bank of the slow running river until her bare feet splashed into the shallows.

 

Springtime always made her blood burn.

 

“Fleur?”

 

Bill was close and she took off again, back into the trees and the budding branches to a clearing of blooming cherry trees.  That was where he pounced.

 

“What am I to do with you?” he asked, his body over hers in the high grass, cherry petals on the air.

 

“Love me,” she whispered, her pale hands moving to touch his long blood red hair, the silken strands a balm to her boiling blood.

 

Springtime, it was when her Veela blood called to her the strongest.  She knew it was a buried natural instinct, inherited, and hard to deny.

 

Bill grinned, his blue eyes gleaming in the afternoon light.  “Love you?  Why, I do, my little flower…”

 

Fleur pursed her lips, feel Bill’s hips slide between her hips.  “More than that,” she whispered.

 

His hands brushed away silvery locks from her face, and he kissed her quickly.

 

“Then…you mean something like this?”

 

Fleur hummed as his hand slipped under her blouse, reaching up to cup her breast still swollen from nursing Louis months before.  The little Weasley was toddling, and with the rest of the children back at the Burrow down the river.

 

“More than that,” she whispered, watching cherry petals fall into Bill’s hair.

 

He moved to unbutton her blouse, and unhooked her brassiere in the front, sliding the clothing away to expose her chest to the sunlight. 

 

“Like this?” he whispered as his mouth descended to a puckered nipple, suckling.

 

She hissed, the flesh still tender, her breast still full.  The sensation of her husband’s mouth was heavenly, but it was still not enough.  Her fingers laced through his hair, stripping away the band that held the long red hair back and let the cool strands fall about her ribs.

 

Fleur whinged as Bill pulled his mouth away, grinning down at her, deviously.  His scarred face was devilishly handsome.

 

“Not enough?” he asked in a husky whisper.

 

She shook her head, letting it roll in the grass under her.  “More.”

 

Bill’s eyes narrowed seductively.  “As my lady wishes…”

 

He pulled his body upward, pulling his old tee shirt over his head to reveal his well-defined chest and belly.  Fleur licked her lips as he threw the shirt aside to undo his belt and the front of his Muggle denims.  The sight of him made her mouth literally water. 

 

Bill slid her skirt up her long legs, and pulling her knickers down.  Fleur had to bite her lower lip to keep from cursing her husband to move faster, touch her, fuck her.  However, his when large hands gripped her bottom, lifting her hips from the ground, she moaned at the caress of his breath against her soaking slit.

 

His tongue swiped widely across her flesh and her eyes shut.  Bill was ever so talented, she thought.  It was no wonder that she had chosen him over all men to be her husband and the father to her children.

 

A sharp nip on her clit made her cry out, tremulously.

 

“More…” she gasped as he lowered her hips from his damp mouth, long tongue licking at her juices.

 

His grin was wolfish, feral, and his eyes blazed in the sunlight.  They were so flawed, she thought, but when they moved together, it was perfection.  In the spring daylight, her pale eyes widened at the sight of his cock, the purple head and the pearl of moisture on the tip.  Fleur wanted to eat him.

 

And she did, her body taking very hard inch until she whimpered as he began to move.  Fleur’s blood burned and her eyes rolled back into her skull as cherry petals sprinkled over her skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 672 words


	63. #63 - Summer - Narcissa/Lucius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #63 – Summer. How to cool down…

#63 - Summer

* * *

The Cooling Charms were not working, and so I had to resort to stripping down to my camisole and knickers, sitting below a shaded window, fanning myself with a copy of Ars Alchemica.  It was not how I would have imagined myself spending a glorious summer day, but I had little choice.  Even the glass of lemonade on the wide windowsill was sweating as much as I was.  I considered running an ice cold bath and lay all day in the water, but I never could stand how my skin would wrinkle on my fingers and toes.

 

It felt was if the Manor were getting back at me for some reason.  There was hardly a breath of wind coming in through the open window over looking the gardens, but on a rare occasion, I would feel the cool spray of the hosepipe watering the flowers below the window.

 

I hate summer.

 

“Cissa?  What are you doing up there?” a voice called from below the window and I straightened, dropping the wrinkled magazine to the floor next to the couch I had Conjured.  Leaning out the window, I gazed down at my husband, and my breath was taken away.

 

He was shirtless, and despite the intensity of the sun, he was still a pale specimen of porcelain perfection.  His long silvery hair was pulled up in a high ponytail; sweat trailing down his wide chest to his slim hips and the loose pair of trousers he wore.  His bare toes curled into the cool, shadowed grass, and his long fingers were blackened with potting soil.

 

“Melting,” I called down.

 

He grinned, and I shivered despite the heat.

 

“Come down to the garden, I will cool you down.”

 

I felt my eyebrow rise speculatively, but I nodded and pulled myself from the window.

 

“Don’t bother changing!” I heard him call, and I smirked.

 

My husband, Lucius, was a strange breed of man.  I supposed I was the only person in the world who knew him for what he truly was—a mischievous, and at times petulant boy in a man’s body.  Sometimes I felt insane, wondering why I had ever consented to marrying him, and at other times, I knew that if I did not have him, I would never want anyone.

 

I felt silly crossing the garden in my under things, but the Manor and its grounds were private, and there were no critical eyes watching me as I had come to know growing up in my parent’s houses.  I scanned the garden, but did not see Lucius.

 

I heard him, however, creeping up behind me, and as I whirled, my sweaty hair slapping into my shoulder, I received a face full of icy water.  My husband, older to know better and far too poised to ever let anyone know his true nature, had sprayed me with the hosepipe like a child.  Lucius was twenty-four years old, and yet, with me, he acted all of twelve years old.  I loved him.

 

I, predictably, shrieked, and tried to run.  My back, my hair, my legs, every bit of me was soaked.  Irritated, I rushed at him, grasping the hosepipe and bending it so the water stopped.  He only grinned, far stronger than I, and put a thumb over the end.

 

Again, I was nearly drowned.

 

The grass of the garden was wet, prismatic rainbows dancing over the ground, and soon, I slipped and fell hard.  Lucius dropped the hosepipe and came running, only to slip himself and fall over me.

 

I think I was the first to laugh.

 

Lucius followed, lying between my thighs, his damp trousers pressing into the wet silk of my knickers.  He kissed me, the sun warming us of the icy hosepipe water.  I loved him more than I could say, even when he was acting like a child.

 

I opened my eyes as he lifted himself halfway off my body, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the shadow of the darkened patch of skin on his forearm.  It was the one thing about him that I found distasteful.  The ‘Dark Mark’ had not burned for him all summer, and I was glad for we could have moments like this…

 

“Cool enough?” he asked the end of his ponytail dripping more cool water on to my nearly transparent camisole.

 

I smirked.  “I think I might need a warm up,” I whispered, twisting my hips against his.

 

He grinned and ground the wet material of his trousers against my core.  “I think I might know the trick to do just that, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 768 words


	64. #64 - Fall - Neville/Hannah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #64 – Fall. Golden and red leaves fell with her.

#64 - Fall

* * *

 

Neville was just sober enough to know that if Hannah were to step on the wrong branch, she would fall over twenty feet to the ground.

 

“Hannah, get down!” he hissed, hoping that none of the party noticed his wife climbing the oak tree at the edge of the Weasley’s garden on a cool autumn day.  Everyone was soused, of course, it being George and Angelina’s fifth wedding anniversary party.  It was a mistake to let Hannah ‘handle the refreshments.’  Between copious amounts of ale, Firewhiskey, and elf-made wine, Neville Longbottom was sure that there would plenty of Sobering Potions to pass out later.

 

As it was, Hannah was a rowdy drunk while he was a contemplative drunk.  

 

“Look, Nev…” he heard his wife say, precariously perched on a branch above his head, her blonde hair blending in with the golden and red leaves.  “House pride!”

 

“Oh, Merlin…” he sighed, feeling slightly dizzy looking up for so long.

 

Being the landlady of the Leaky Cauldron was one thing, drinking the wares was another.

 

“What _is_ she doing?” a voice asked at Neville’s shoulder.

 

Ginny Potter had a glass of elf-made wine in her hand, blue eyes gazing up at Hannah.

 

“I have no idea,” Neville muttered.

 

The branches shook under Hannah, and she laughed, as leaves fell down upon him and Ginny in a shower of gold and red.

 

“I don’t think I could use my wand to catch her if she fell,” Ginny said into her glass, swaying unsteadily.

 

Me either, Neville wanted to say, as just as that moment, the thing he feared, happened.  Hannah shrieked, her bare foot slipping off the branch under her, and she was falling.  Ginny shouted, but Neville moved.

 

Hannah was a slight woman, and as she fell into Neville’s arms, she was not heavy enough to knock him down.  He did fall, however, dizzy, and feeling nauseous.  His back in a pile of leaves, Hannah pressed against his chest, her dress skirt flipped up over her head, he started laughing.

 

“I almost died, and you’re laughing!” she growled, pushing up from Neville’s wide chest, her hair tangled with leaves.

 

“Oi!  Everything alright over there?” Neville heard Ron call from the tables set just outside the kitchen garden.

 

“All fine!” Ginny called back, shaking her head and turning to move back to the party.  “Hannah is jumping off high places again!”

 

“Oh, well, that’s alright then,” Ron called back.

 

Neville’s arms were sore, and as Hannah stretched out over him, her thighs straddling his hips, his laughter turned to quiet chuckles.  Her lips turned up into a smile.  She smoothed his hair from his face, pulling away more leaves, and then with a chuckle, bent down, and kissed him sloppily.

 

“My hero,” she whispered as her arms wound about his neck.

 

Neville snorted.

 

Hannah was always the levelheaded one, steadfast, loyal, and lovely.  Neville could only gaze up at her golden blonde hair that highlighted her pretty face and deep blue eyes.  She was beautiful to him with the leaves haloing her head above him. 

 

“You kill me,” he chuckled, and was rewarded with a sharp pinch to the shoulder.

 

Leaning down again, Hannah licked the tip of his nose playfully and was gone.  Neville lay in the pile of leaves for a long while, breathing in the musky freshness of autumn.  He could hear Hannah and Ginny laughing at something Harry had said, and then shriek as George unleashed a dung bomb under the feet.  The musky freshness was immediately pushed aside as the stench wafted in his direction, and jumping to his feet; he started to climb the oak tree to escape.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 611 words


	65. #65 - Time - Draco-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #65 – Time. Time had been his jailer.  
> 'The Fool, the Emperor, the Hanged Man' spoilers.

#65 - Time

* * *

 

 

Time was every man’s enemy, however, for Draco Malfoy, time was more a cruel jailer.

 

When Lem Nix pulled the bandages away from his eyes, Draco wished in his deepest of hearts that _she_ would be the first thing he would see.  He wanted to see her again, with both eyes—only to be disappointed.

 

Two years apart from her, not knowing what became of her, only knowing that time had swallowed her before his very eye—singular, at the time.  As he looked at Lem Nix’s kind, strange face, Draco knew it was time to go.

 

Time was a jailer and a puzzle.

 

Draco stood in the Forbidden Forest looking at his hands, scarred, calloused, dirt engrained so deep into old blisters that it would stain his skin for all time.  He had a peasant’s hands, and he knew that there had once been a time he thought he would live a life of ease and frivolity.

 

His prison had changed, time had trapped him in the fifteenth century, and he built her home for her just as he remembered it.  And in that house he built with his bare hands, Draco touched every surface, knowing that in five hundred years, she would touch the same spots.

 

He slept in the bed they had once shared, the bed where he had saved her from bleeding to death.  In that bed five hundred years from that point, he would taste her skin, hear her voice, touch the softness of her flesh, and see her face glow with ecstasy.  In that bed, he would say that he loved her.

 

He loved her every night, stroking himself with his rough, calloused hands, the image of her face engrained into every synapses of his brain.  He had to get back to her; he could not live in the cottage alone with just a ghost of a memory yet to occur in time.

 

So, his jailer let him slip a little closer to the one he loved.

 

When he arrived in his own time, January 2008, he knew he could never see her, not until that night in the cemetery.  Draco knew that he may only have the chance to see her one last time that night…the night Hermione Granger killed Harry Potter. 

 

Erebus had struck her, he remembered, Erebus had kept her on task.

 

“You would not betray me, would you Erebus?  You have been my steadfast one, my constant shadow,” Harry Potter had said before Draco/Erebus released the latch on the Time-Turner to send them back to June 24, 1995.

 

He said nothing to Harry. 

 

Time had proven to Draco that Harry Potter was not as mad as many would like him to believe.  Harry Potter was obsessed, that much was certain, and he would stop at nothing to see his obsession become reality—that was where many thought the man insane.  Draco found Harry methodical, thorough, but foolhardy at times, whose mind was like that of a child’s.

 

Harry had never suspected that the dark shadow that had told Harry how to get a Time-Turner had been Draco Malfoy all along, and as far as Draco knew, Harry would never know.

 

All that mattered was that time release him that time returned him to her and her to him.  All that mattered was that they could move beyond Harry Potter, and the need to keep time in mind.  He was tired of time, and all he could think of was her.

 

When she reappeared before the chapel, spewing sickness into the grass, he felt every nerve and muscle in his body twitch to touch her.  When she moved about the dangling body of her old friend, searching instead for his past self, he let his eyes follow the way her body moved.  She was stiff, weary, and her face was pale, but she was alive, and nearly unchanged from the last time he remembered her.  Her face had been vicious and determined when she buried the stiletto into Potter’s heart.  Her face had been stone when Potter breathed his last breath, swearing love to her.  Only a tear had marred that face, and Draco knew, somehow, that it was not for Potter.

 

Time had separated them; time had stolen him away from her side.

 

It was only when she would listen to reason that he could tell her that her precious Draco was not lost.  He had never been lost, in reality, just imprisoned.  Her shock was much as his had been nine years before.  He could see the blankness in her eyes, her hesitancy, her pain; it was all too much, too fast.

 

To watch her trying so hard to understand made Draco want her more, crush her against his body, wrap himself around her, inside her so that time could never hurt either of them again.

 

Time had taught him control, it had taught him patience, but when he finally kissed her in the groom’s quarters, time had made him nearly insane with need.  Violent visions coursed through his head, all the old fantasies he had had, and Draco had to squash them lest he fuck her soundly upon the floor or on the bench without her consent.

 

Time he could give her, time he could give himself, as soon as she had returned to replace herself into the timeline, Draco Malfoy had been freed.

 

Time had finally rewarded him when she came back to him to stay, to be his only forever and a day.

 

Hermione Granger had been time’s great reward to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 926 words


	66. #66 - Rain - Hermione/Sirius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #66 – Rain. Rain pelted her head and shoulders, but she ignored it.

#66 - Rain

* * *

The dog had been following her since the Tube station.  Hermione Granger had noted the large dark dog, a breed that reminded her of a wolfhound, but with darker fur.  It was late, too late for any self-possessing young woman to be on the streets so late.  However, Hermione Granger had no fear of walking the streets alone.  She was an Auror; it was everyone else that needed to fear.

 

She had worked late at the Ministry, finishing paper work, and without realizing how late it was, sighed when she realized that her work was cutting into her long, highly anticipated weekend.  She had no plans except to stay at home and relaxing on her lumpy couch, watching a few films she had missed over the summer.

 

Home was a poky flat not far from Grimmauld Place and the Potters, and she preferred walking off her work thoughts by trekking the fifteen blocks from the Tube station.  Harry thought she was insane; the neighborhood between the station and Grimmauld Place was shady even during the daylight hours.  All the same, Hermione walked, her boots tapping against the damp pavement, wet from a cold early winter drizzle in London.

 

Turning a corner, Hermione caught sight of the dog out of the corner of her amber eye.  It was a large dog, and in the dark between streetlights, its eyes glowed fathomless silver.  Hermione quickened her pace, smelling rain on the air over the scent of garbage and pollution.

 

She was five blocks from her flat when a car passed slowly, indistinct faces peering at her for a moment before speeding off again.  Hermione paid no mind and continued down the street.

 

The sound of a bottle clattering in a nearby alley gave her pause to swivel her head around to see that dog was closer on her heels.  Hermione slipped her wand from the sleeve of her long coat and let the handle rest in her palm.  She had learned long ago that some things are not always what they appear to be.

 

The fact that the dog reminded her very much of Padfoot do not go unnoted either.  Padfoot was dead, however, but there were plenty of other unregistered animagus who wished her ill.  Escaped Death Eaters, for starters.

 

Crossing the street, Hermione further quickened her pace only to find the large, wet dog was closer, almost shadowing her steps.

 

If it were simply a dog, surely it would have lost interest in her by thirteen blocks?

 

Hermione bit her lip, knowing that soon she would have to cross the street again and from there her flat was just down the street.  The dog was still following, its paws in step with her footfalls. 

 

It could not be an ordinary dog.

 

It was then Hermione cast a small lighting spell, a diversionary tactic all Aurors knew, and blinded the dog while she jumped into a narrow space between apartment buildings where she could Apparate without notice by the Muggles.

 

She heard the dog yelp sharply as the light blazed bright and she slipped into the alley.  However, before she could begin to prepare to Apparate, two large hands grasped her shoulders, using the leather of her coat to slam her into the wall of the alley.  The strength of the hands forcing her into the wall pushed air from her lungs and smacked the back of her head into the wall.

 

However, leaning just inches away in the narrow space was a dark figure whose eyes burned into her face.

 

The soft patter of rain upon the street outside the alley distracted the figure for a moment, and Hermione took her chance, slipping back out to the street—her head aching, but the image of the living room of her flat clear.  She began to move to Apparate…

 

…only to find herself on the alley floor, laying on old newspapers and greasy fish wrappers.

 

The rain came harder as she stared up in the near darkness of the alley.

 

“Y-you…” she gasped, her breath still not coming as easily as it should.

 

Her limbs were paralyzed with shock, but her eyes moved to study a familiar face.

 

When he kissed her, Hermione’s brain was screaming at her to breathe.  His hands touched her face and hair, not caring about the rain or the smell of filth in the alley.

 

Hermione began coughing for air when his lips pulled away.  He helped her to sit up, rubbing damp circles into her back, pulling away rubbish from her riotous hair.  When she could breathe again, her limbs working again, she moved.

 

Hermione could feel the rain pelting the tops of her head and shoulders, but her wand tip was pointed into the throat of the man she straddled.  She did not care if she was heavy, but she did care that she had pinned his hands to his sides, sitting on the man’s stomach, her knees pressing down into the insides of his elbows.  His discomfort was clear in the darkness.

 

“You died.  You cannot be here, and if you make a move, I will curse your fucking head off!” she roared.

 

Sirius Black lay still on the alley floor, his hair, inky and thick, well groomed even in the rain.  His face was only little changed from what Hermione remembered the last time she had seen him alive.  Even his clothing was fine, his heavy fur line coat expensive.  Sirius Black, if it were indeed, Sirius Black, could only stare up at Hermione Granger, an expression of mirth on his lips.

 

“Who are you?” Hermione asked even though she could not deny Sirius Black lay pinned beneath her.

 

He did not answer, but closed his eyes slowly as Hermione’s body shifted downward so that she could release some of the pressure off his arms.  Hermione could feel his warmth; feel his heartbeat against her thighs as they were wrapped about his ribs.  He was real, he was alive.

 

“Tell me!” she shouted, digging her wand into his pulse point.

 

He opened his eyes again, and gently shook his head mutely.  He opened his mouth to speak, and though words formed form his lips, no sound came out.  In the dark she could not read his lips properly, but as her hand moved to clutch his throat, she could feel air moving in his throat, but the rumble of sound that usually accompanied speaking was absent.

 

Hermione sighed, pulling her wand away, sitting back against Sirius Black, causing his face to flush and his eyes shut again.

 

“You were the dog?”

 

Sirius nodded once.

 

Hermione shifted again, and Sirius sighed sharply. 

 

Quickly, Hermione stood, backing away from the man who looked like Sirius Black towards the mouth of the alley.  Only Sirius Black could transform into such a familiar animagus…

 

Hermione shouted as she was once again pulled deeper into the alley, the rain making the rubbish within stink about her.  Sirius embraced her in such a manner that alarmed Hermione—one hand about her hips, pressing her against him, the other about her shoulders to press her breasts against his chest.

 

The rain fell in torrents over them, but Hermione could not pull free.  Instead, she began considering what she should do.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,211 words


	67. #67 - Snow - Hermione/Harry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #67 – Snow. She would be the one to give him peace.  
> Fits in with 'The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man'

#67 - Snow

* * *

 

 

Harry’s feet crunched into the snow as he walked, his hand wrapped about the woman’s at his side.  He could see his breath in the air as he exhaled, and his face was numb with the cold of the late winter day.  It had been a year since the Battle of Hogwarts, and Harry had returned to the castle just before Christmas, hoping to see Ginny.  Unfortunately, Ginny was far too busy with her N.E.W.T.s to bother with Harry.  Harry Potter was annoyed.

 

“It’s getting dark, Harry.”

 

Harry stopped walking, realising that he had been pulling Hermione Granger around in circles about the castle and that they stood near the edge of the Forbidden Forest close to Hagrid’s Hut.  Hermione had been staying at Hogwarts while the Ministry was making concessions to bring her parents home from Australia.  Hermione had been the only person at Hogwarts that had the time to talk to him it seemed.

 

Harry turned to Hermione who was bundled up in her heavy winter cloak with one of her knitted hats over her wild curls.  In the dim evening light, he could see her cheeks were red with cold and that her pink bow lips were quivering.

 

Harry sighed and pulled Hermione into an embrace, startling the young woman.  When he felt her arms fit around his body, he spoke for the first time in hours of walking.

 

“Do you ever think of what the world would be like if Voldemort had not risen?” he asked in whisper, his breath rustling Hermione’s hair.

 

He felt Hermione shift against him.  She barely came up to his chin and her feet slipped slightly in the snow so that her slight weight fell more fully against his chest.

 

“I…” she started, but her teeth were beginning to chatter.  “I suppose, but what good is it now?”

 

Harry frowned and pulled away from Hermione to gaze down into her strange amber eyes.  His icy right hand cupped her cool cheek, and slowly he smiled.  However, Hermione did not smile back.  Her brows knitted and her lips pulled away from her teeth.  Harry wondered what it was she was seeing when she looked at him.

 

“We lost so many friends—just think if we had the means to go back and change it…  We would never have to lose anyone,” he whispered.

 

Snow began falling again and each flake that fell against his bare skin burned.

 

Hermione began to shrug away from his touch, her lips curling in distaste.  Harry, however, caught her again in his arms, lifting her feet form the snowy ground to press his face to hers.  It was a gesture they shared often the year before when they searched for Horcruxes without Ron, but as Harry pressed his cold, unshaven cheek to Hermione’s soft skin, he could feel Hermione’s violent revulsion through her skin.

 

Harry could not understand it.  How could Hermione be so repulsed by him?  Or was it the idea that they could change the past for a better future?  Couldn’t Hermione see how much he loved her, needed her?

 

When he kissed her lips, Hermione whimpered, unable to fight him, his embrace trapping her arms at her sides.  A swift kick of a boot into his shin sent him falling into the snow, Hermione under him.

 

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked after he removed his mouth from her sealed mouth. 

 

Hermione’s eyes were wide as they stared up at him, her face as white as the snow under her.

 

“Are you angry?” he asked, his own voice letting some of his angry confusion through his words.

 

Hermione said nothing, but shook; her entire body quaked not just from the cold of the snow under her, but from what Harry identified as fear.

 

Harry’s emerald eyes widened behind his glasses, and quickly he rolled off her body.  He knew what Hermione was thinking and remembering.  She remembered the night after he was injured in Godric’s Hollow, and how he had insinuated himself to be allowed to kiss her, to touch her.  She loved another, and he, not knowing it as much then, loved Ginny.

 

Hermione rose stiffly, brushing snow from her cloak, taking five paces from Harry toward the castle, her face turned up to the snowy sky.  Harry sighed, rubbing a frozen hand through untidy black hair.  He could only gaze at Hermione’s back and the way the ends of her hair curled against her cloaked back.

 

Hermione had always been the strong one, Harry knew, and for that he loved her more than he could ever let her know.

 

Even after defeating Voldemort, Harry felt dissatisfied, as if he were missing something important.  The longer the time since that day in May, the more he felt like he needed to do something, and for that he would need Hermione’s help.

 

Rising from the snow, Harry moved to Hermione, gently embracing her back.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

She said nothing, letting her face fall away from the snowy sky.  Harry felt her breathing and body relax into his.

 

“Let’s go on,” he suggested.

 

Hermione hesitated to take Harry’s hand again, but when she did, she shivered.  Harry watched her face all the while they walked back to the castle.

 

He would need her at some point.  He would need her mind and her will.  He would need to do something about the way he felt before he went insane.

 

Harry Potter hated the snow as it fell seemingly peacefully around him and Hermione.  Harry resigned his life to never have true peace, and no clean clarity like snow on the mountains around the castle.  He could not explain why he felt so disquieted, but he knew, just by holding Hermione Granger’s small hand, that she might be the only person to give him clarity and peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 972 words


	68. #68 - Lightning - Bill-Charlie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #68 – Lightning. “Something is different…”  
> An aside for 'Whom the Gods Would Destroy'

#68 – Lightning

* * *

 

 

“The air feels different.”

 

Lightning flashed over the sea, miles away in billowing clouds of black, grey, and navy blue.  The waves were tumultuous, as if agitated.

 

“A storm is coming,” Charlie said, his hands on his hips as he and his older brother hovered high above the ancient bay of Carthage.

 

Bill shook his head, his long red hair catching the wind and blowing about his face.  “It is more than that, Chuck.  It is more than storm rolling in, or the sandstorm in the far south…  It’s…” he trailed.

 

Bill mirrored Charlie’s posture, and together they sat on their brooms after a late afternoon fly over North Africa on new Firebolt Threes. 

 

“You know it is just the news, Bill, I knew you were upset when letter from Gringotts came.”

 

Bill’s eyes flashed the reflection of lightning over the Mediterranean, moving to his brother.

 

“No…  It’s something more than that.  It is the rumours, Chuck.  With you being in Wales now, you haven’t heard.”

 

Charlie frowned.  “Heard what?”

 

Bill shrugged as a roll of thunder reached them from somewhere in the west.

 

“It doesn’t matter.  You’re going back tomorrow, but I’ll be going with you.”

 

Charlie blinked, his jade green eyes narrowing.  “What’s really going on?” he grumbled.

 

Bill said nothing more a moment as they began to feel more moisture from the sea wind.  “Fleur wants me to pull Tori out of school before the new term starts.  I’ll stop to meet with Griphook and the others for whatever these ‘special orders to not to return to Britain until recalled’ mean.”

 

A gust of wind pushed at the shielding Charms on the brooms.

 

Charlie ground his teeth.  Whatever was bothering his brother, who was usually laid back and carefree, had to be a big deal.

 

“I just hope that Fleur and I are being overly cautious, Chuck.  But if something should happen…”

 

“What’s going to happen?” Charlie barked as lightning crackled across the clouds beginning to roll into the shore quicker than before.

 

“Nothing, I hope,” Bill said in almost a whisper.  “Just keep an eye open, Chuck.  Something is different.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

One year later…

 

 

 

 

 

They hovered over Hogwarts on a particularly cold late December day, as far below the crowds moved from one grave to the next, reading out names in a memorial ceremony.  Charlie kept his fur-lined cloak wrapped tight about his throat, the cowl pulled low over his face.

 

“How many, do you think?” Bill asked next to him, dressed in a similar cloak, his scarred chin the only thing visible for his cowl.

 

“One thousand three hundred and eight, exactly,” Charlie muttered, his hands on the hips of his dragon hide trousers.

 

“So many?” Bill asked to himself, incredulous.

 

Charlie let his eyes move to the castle again, and standing on the Astronomy Tower was Fleur, the surviving Weasley grandchildren, and the one woman who stood apart from the others.  She was dressed in almost the same outfit as he and Bill, but her cowl was pushed back to allow golden waves and curls be lifted on the wind.

 

“Too many,” Charlie sighed as she turned her golden eyes to him and smiled sadly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 530 words


	69. #69 - Thunder - Harry/Luna

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #69 – Thunder. How to stave off fear.

#69 - Thunder

* * *

 

 

When Harry found Luna, the thunder was rolling in deep rumbles, shaking everything, even the very walls of Grimmauld Place.  The sound of thunder even eclipsed the sounds of the party downstairs, the three-year anniversary of the fall of Voldemort…

 

“Luna?” Harry asked, moving to his knees to lift the heavy Black family tapestry up to find a frightened young woman cowering, hands over her ears, eyes shut tight.

 

At another roll of thunder, shaking the floor, Luna whimpered.

 

Harry smirked.  Luna Lovegood, who had fought at his side in the Department of Mysteries, helped him escape Malfoy Manor, and aided him during the Last Battle, was afraid of thunder…  Considering how odd her behaviour had always been, it was not too surprising that she was afraid of something as trivial as thunder.

 

His hands wrapped about her wrists, preparing to pull her palms away from her ears, but when he found he was pulling her whole body to face him, her body rigid, he sighed.  Luna opened her eerie grey eyes, and blinked once at him, her straw-coloured hair coated in dust and cobwebs.

 

“Harry Potter,” she said softly, as if saying his name verify his existence in her mind.

 

Harry smiled as Luna’s hands slipped from her ears to curl inside his fingers.

 

“We missed you downstairs, are you alright?” he asked.

 

Harry had always liked Luna, and believed her otherworldly wisdom to be a balm to his sore spirit when he really needed some relief.

 

“I…” she began, but cast her large eyes away, her body relaxing slightly.

 

Harry knelt before her, moving his hand to smooth down the tapestry behind Luna’s head, then allowed his fingers to go to her hair, picking out doxy eggs and cobwebs.

 

“You don’t like thunder?” Harry supplied, wiping at the cobwebs on her bare shoulders.  She had chosen a garish orange summer dress to wear to the party, with matching heels, stilettos of patent orange leather, a strange combination, and a disconcerting fashion choice in Harry’s opinion.

 

“I should have said something,” Luna said softly, her hand moving from Harry’s to pick at an invisible thread at the shoulder of his tee shirt, attempting to groom him as he was grooming her.  “I could have cast a charm to block out the sound…but…”

 

Another rumble of thunder, and a sharp ‘thwack’ of lightning striking nearby sent Luna into his arms, knocking Harry flat on his back, his glasses askew on his face.  Harry tried to laugh, but Luna’s arms about his neck, and face pressed into his chest made him hold his breath.  She was whimpering, her entire body quaking.

 

“Luna…” he whispered, his arms curling about her thin body, hoping to calm her shivers.

 

His touch against her bareback seemed to soothe her, but Harry found he had another problem as he stared up at the ceiling, only able to see the dusty boards through his left eye as his glasses were crooked over his face.  The problem was the growing problem in his denims.  Luna’s narrow hips were pressed tight against his by way of gravity, and her breasts, which felt larger than they looked in the orange halter-top dress, were warm against his chest.

 

Luna began to move, as if to extract herself from Harry, but Harry held her fast.  He was at a loss as to what to do.  Luna had not seemed to notice how hard he was against her pelvis, and if she had noticed, Harry knew she would not make a big deal of it.  However, as Luna moved, Harry realised that the witch had indeed noticed, and was moving purposefully to make sweat break out along his forehead.

 

“Luna…” he gasped, his arms curling tighter, “…don’t do…”

 

He groaned as her bare legs moved so her knees were planted on either side of his hips, orange stilettos shifting on the wood floor.  He angled his chin down to look at her face, but she still hid it in his chest.  The front of his denims felt warmer.  Luna Lovegood was not wearing knickers…

 

Merlin!  Harry swallowed as her hips shifted over his, and the warmth grew.  He wanted to open his mouth to ask her to stop, to ask her what she believed she was doing…

 

Another rumble of thunder, and Luna froze.  Harry sighed, his hands moving to cradle her head as her hands found purchase upon the clothed planes of his chest.  And then, she kissed him, lips trembling from fear, eyes shut tight.  It was an awkward kiss, but Harry closed his eyes as he tasted butterbeer and something anise, perhaps a lozenge she was so fond of eating.

 

The awkwardness quickly turned into skill as Harry’s chest burned for air, Luna’s kiss affecting his entire body so that it tingled pleasantly.  Finally, he was able to breath as Luna buried her face into his shoulder.

 

Harry opened his mouth to speak, but only managed a throaty grunt as unseen hands stealthily unbuttoned his fly, and pushed the zipper down.  His brow furrowed, knowing very well that Luna’s hands were pressed into his chest.  A spell surely.  What sort of perverted spells did Ravenclaws learn anyway?

 

Luna inhaled the scent of Harry’s shirt as her centre rubbed against Harry’s cock, which arched up from his body.  Harry groaned at the heat and dampness sliding down his organ, and resignedly let his hands fall from Luna’s body to the floor.  A vision of blond and orange, Luna lifted her body from his, her face distant, her eyes nearly shut as she gazed down at his face, his glasses were still skewed and slightly fogged from their kiss.

 

Just as thunder rattled the house, Harry cried out as Luna impaled herself upon him, her body tightening from penetration, and the sudden fear the thunder caused.  Harry nearly lost himself with the first stroke.  Luna whimpered, but forced herself to move, even as the thunder rumbled on and on…

 

Harry wondered, distantly, if he had not been the one to find her what would she have done to stave off her fear?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,020 words


	70. #70 - Storm - Harry/Ron/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #70 – Storm. The were a unit.

#70 - Storm

* * *

 

Lightning would flash, and she would count the seconds until thunder would sound.

 

Ten seconds. 

 

The storm was raging, and on Ron’s bed, limbs and lips were tangling.  With every groan, thunder would roll, and with every fifth or sixth deep thrust of hips, lightning would flash.  Hermione watched from a chair near the door.

 

Summer storms, winter blizzards, spring cloudbursts, and autumn rains, it was always the same.  They came together in different combinations, but the result was always the same.  When the storm would clear, they would be sated.  Summer, in her opinion, was the best for storms.

 

Ron’s voice rang out in his bedroom at the Burrow, but Hermione knew no one but the three of them were in the house.  It was a rare treat to have the majority of the Weasley family gone for the night.  Ginny was visiting Luna for the weekend in Norway, Molly and Arthur had gone to visit Bill and Fleur, and Ron had stayed behind with her and Harry, claiming that the ‘Trio’ needed some time.  It was an easy explanation to the Weasleys.  Despite Harry’s marriage, and Hermione’s job, and Ron’s job, no one got between them when they wanted to come together.  They were a unit.

 

Hermione licked her lips as a flash of lightning through the window gave her a glimpse of Harry’s slim hips jerking forward, long cock sinking past pale, muscular buttocks.  Ron was gripping one of the pillows, his flushed face turned toward her, eyes nearly shut.  Harry’s gasps and moans were melodic as was the damp, sweaty slapping sound of skin against skin.

 

This storm had Ron feeling submissive, Harry dominant, and Hermione, still in her suit jacket and skirt, feeling delightfully voyeuristic.  Uncrossing her legs, she trailed a hand up her shin to her knee and past the hem of her skirt.

 

“Fuck him harder,” she whispered evenly as the wind whipped against the ramshackle siding of the Burrow.

 

Lightning flashed again, and Harry’s emerald eyes glowed momentarily, looking at her and how she wriggled out of her knickers.  A sharp thrust made Ron grunt louder, his shaggy red head lifting from the pillow to throw back, his palms slamming into the wall above the foot of the bed.  Harry snarled, fingers weaving through his hair, deepening the angle of penetration.

 

A particularly close bolt of lightning shook the entire house and Hermione bunched up her skirt about her hips, leaning back into the chair and spread her thighs.  She sighed as her fingertips touched her wet folds, and traced them languidly. 

 

Ron began thrusting back, and in the near darkness and sudden flashes, Hermione could see his erect cock and heavy sac swaying and brushing the sheets under him.  A sticky trail of pre-come was pulled and broken with every sway, and Hermione licked her lips, knowing that her ginger haired friend was close.

 

As if on cue, Ron’s back arched in time with a strobe like flash of lightening, and thick ejaculate sprayed the bed under his knees.  Hermione groaned softly, Harry pulling on Ron’s hair to bend his back further, licking at his face, biting at his lips.  When Ron fell to the bed, limp and spent, Harry sighed and pulled away, his cock spring upward and back as he sat on the bed.

 

“Wand.”

 

It was all Harry had to say to Ron to break him from his post orgasmic haze.  Reaching toward the low table by the bed, Ron grasped his wand, and twisting with a wince, sat in his own come, wearily casting Cleaning Charms on himself and Harry who was staring at Hermione’s parted thighs.

 

Rain began to pelt the window as the wind shifted, adding an ambient hum around the room.  The wind howled, and Hermione wondered for a moment how long the storm would last.

 

Harry began stroking his cock as Ron Vanished the ejaculate on the bed, rolling on his side so his back was to Hermione, the pale expanse reddened by the marks Harry left with his hands and fingernails.  With only a glance from emerald eyes, sans spectacles, Hermione knew what Harry wanted.

 

Only ever, when it stormed and raged did Harry get what he could not have.

 

Hermione rose, unzipping the side of her skirt and let it fall to the floor.  The rest of her clothing was shed as she moved to the narrow bed, far too small for three people.  Harry rested his back against the wall as she crawled over his bare legs, sitting on his knees, to take his cock in her hand.  Ron watched them sleepily, but already, Hermione could see out the corner of her eye that his cock was reviving.

 

“Who’s who, this time?” Hermione asked in a whisper, glancing to her two best friends, one to the other.

 

Another flash and both men grinned.  “You are our favourite to be the middle, luv,” Ron said softly, rising off the bed to kiss her bare right shoulder and grasp her breast roughly.

 

Harry chuckled, rubbing the head of his cock into her belly.  Hermione smirked.  “I rather like having Harry in the middle.”

 

Hermione loved the fact they could be lewd in their few moments.  Life, their lives, did not matter when they were together, closeted away from a storm.  Harry was not a husband, Hermione was not a Ministry official, Ron was not an Auror, and there was no room for outside worries.

 

“Enough talking,” Harry growled impatiently, abandoning his cock and grabbing Hermione’s hips.  “I’ve been waiting two months for this…”

 

The storm raged on and on, their voices lost on the thunder and wind, and each wondered when the next bit of bad weather would be…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 957 words


	71. 71 - Broken - Harry(?)/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #71 – Broken. She had feared he had been broken.

#70 - Broken

* * *

 

Harry had been acting odd all through the ceremony.  He sat on one of the benches down the row from her; his eyes closed, his lips moving, his hands shaking.  His face was pale, and she wondered what had become of his glasses.  No one seemed to notice, or if they did, did not let their eyes linger long on the man.

 

Ten years, it had been ten years since Harry had defeated Voldemort in the Great Hall in which they now sat.  It was the celebration of that anniversary, and the placing of a commemorative marker into the center of the floor of the hall, a great circular bronze crest with an image of a phoenix, a marker to remind future generations of the importance of that May day ten years before.

 

Hermione Granger ignored the words being spoken by the current Minister of Magic, and studied Harry.

 

Ginny Potter seemed oblivious to her husband’s behaviour, as did Harry’s best friend, Ron.  Hermione, she was on the outside after ten years.  Her friendship had been cast aside when she did not accept Ron’s proposal.  Ron sat with his own wife, Pansy Parkinson, near Harry.  Hermione sat alone.

 

Harry’s hands shook, and he grasped his pant legs, his eyes opening at some unknown signal, staring blindly outward for a moment before flicking to Hermione’s face.

 

Hermione blinked as Harry’s mouth curled into a disconcerting grin, his face turning to her.  Hermione quickly looked to her lap, and the dark green fabric of her knee long skirt.  She had not talked to Harry in at least two years.  She had known that she would see him, all of them, and she was not afraid to confront their cold faces.  They particularly disliked her, the Weasleys, since she had dated Draco Malfoy on and off for the past three years.  Draco was not present.

 

When the ceremony ended, Hermione quickly left the Great Hall to find a restroom, and remembering that she could easily slip into Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom unseen, she did so.  Luckily, the melancholy ghost seemed to have occupied elsewhere.

 

Hermione moved to the sinks, washing her hands, smoothing her curls over her shoulder, and smiling into the mirror, her makeup in order, her lipstick fresh.  Adjusting the tiny silver dragon pendant on the chain about her neck, she frowned as she noticed one of the buttons on her pale green blouse was loose and hanging by a thread.

 

However, before she could slip her wand from her sleeve, she heard the door bang shut hollowly behind her.  In the mirror, Hermione could just make a figure behind her, and turning, found herself suddenly flying back from the sinks to collide painfully into wall below the great circular window between the stalls.  She had been knocked from her shoes, and her bare feet dangled just an inch from the floor.

 

A hand was over her mouth, another wrapped about her throat, and as she slid down, toes in contact with the floor, only the hand over her mouth moved.  The hand about her throat was choking her, but not enough so that she could not breathe.

 

“Hermione.”

 

Harry Potter stared at her; emerald eyes gleaming dangerously, the lightning bolt scar an angry red.

 

“H-Harry?”

 

“I’ve been meaning to catch up with you…”

 

And then he kissed her.  Hermione whined into the kiss, her eyes wide, but as his lips demanded her reciprocation, she hummed and shut her eyes.  Harry’s fingers moved to grasp her skirt, bunching it in his hand.  Hermione’s eyes opened again even as their tongues twisted and danced.  Harry’s hand had found its way under her skirt to grasp the side band of her knickers.

 

Pulling away, Harry panted, his breath hot in her face.  Hermione’s hands grasped at Harry’s shirt, trying to push him away.

 

“What is this?” she gasped, and then let out a short, breathless scream as Harry tore away her underwear.

 

With a grunt, Harry spun her away from the wall so that she fell to the floor, painfully.  But before she could try to rise, try to run, Harry was upon her, twisting her body.  Hermione whimpered as she found herself on her back, Harry between her thighs, his body pinning her down to the floor.  Fighting with her shirt, Harry plucked her wand from her sleeve and threw it across the bathroom.  Then, with a chuckle, he grabbed her wrists in one hand and slammed them above her head and into the floor.

 

They gasped, staring at each other, Hermione with frightened amber eyes and Harry with amused emerald eyes…

 

“This is, to answer your question, my love, something I need to do…” Harry panted.

 

He kissed her again, their eyes boring into each other, Hermione’s fear replaced by anger.  She tried to kick, tried to bite, but to no avail.  Harry ripped away the silver pendant, and Hermione roared, the silver dragon bouncing across the stone floor and out of sight.

 

“Do you love me?” he asked, causing Hermione to stop fighting to stare up at her old friend incredulously.  “Do you?

 

Hermione frowned.  “Harry…”

 

“Do you?” Harry roared in question, his grip on her wrists tightening.

 

“YES!” she screamed.

 

Harry’s face softened and he pressed a strangely tender kiss against her lips.  But no matter how tender his kiss was, his free hand had snaked down to push her skirt to her hips, and hot fingers slipped between the flesh lips of her body and flicked brutally at the nubbin of flesh hidden there.

 

Hermione squirmed out of the kiss and tried to scream, but nothing came but a strangled groan.  Harry grinned into her cheek before licking his way to her ear, nibbling on her throat just below her earlobe. 

 

When Harry entered her, Hermione wept, not because her best friend was trying to convince her body that she wanted him, but because it was not truly her best friend who was forcing himself into her body.  He had released her wrists, but she did not fight.  She clung to him, just as he clung to her.

 

Harry was cooing to her, his eyes penetrating into her mind just as his organ was penetrating into the hollow of her body.  He was telling her that he had been wrong, that he loved her, always had.  He was telling her that they would be together, forever.  He was telling her how strong, how brave, how beautiful, and how perfect she was, for him.

 

And as she cried out, his hand wrapping about her throat, she knew that every word had been in Parseltongue.

 

Emerald eyes flashed ruby, and Hermione knew for certain, something that she had feared.  Harry Potter was broken, and had been for years.  And as he kissed her, squeezing her throat, blood coming from her nose, Hermione Granger knew that Harry Potter wanted to break her too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,151 words


	72. 72 - Fixed - Lily/Remus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #72 – Fixed. I want to fix you…

72 - Fixed

* * *

 

 

 

She found him in a broom cupboard, one that he liked to hide in when he felt particularly low.  It was more like a small retreat than a cupboard with its own window, stone bench below, and a tiny stove to heat the space.  She always wondered what the original purpose of the room was, but as she closed the door behind her, she was more concerned about him.

 

Remus Lupin was hugging his knees to his chest, staring out the small window to the grounds bathed in moonlight, only a half moon yet.  At her entrance, she could see in the dim light that his nostrils flared.  It was always like this at the half moon.

 

“I keep forgetting to ward the door,” he said miserably, letting his head fall back against the wall behind him.

 

Lily Evans had to stoop to move to him.  If she had to stoop, she was sure Remus had to nearly crouch to sit on the built-in bench below the open window.

 

“You shouldn’t be here, Lily,” he growled softly, his eyes flashing toward her as she at next to his worn out shoes.  “Last time…  I hurt you last time.”

 

Lily’s green eyes moved to Remus’ face, and she frowned.  “It wasn’t that bad, besides…”

 

Remus unfurled his legs, moving to press his back into the wall under the window.  “You cannot keep trying to help me by doing this.”

 

She agreed, but she would never say it to Remus.  Despite his intelligence and wonderful poise, he was hiding his secret with all his energy.  It was not just full moon that worried him.  The half moon had him hiding as much as full moon.  He was afraid he might hurt a girl just to satisfy his feral compulsions.

 

Slipping her wand from her pocket in her skirt, she Charmed the door with everything that would ensure no one would enter or hear anything from within the cupboard.  As she lowered her wand, Remus’ hand was there, resting on the backside of her hand.

 

“Please, Lily, don’t…”

 

She ignored him, rising and toeing out of her shoes.  Remus was breathing hard, his eyes trying to shut her out, but snapping open as she slipped out her skirt and shirt, folding them and placing them on the low step near the door.

 

Placing her wand on top of the cold stove, she reached behind her back to unhook her brassiere.  Watching Remus through her long lashes, she could tell that he was trying his best not to move.

 

It was always like this, Remus suffering for something that he had no control over.  Remus called it ‘the wolf,’ the thing that scratched his insides and made him do things he knew were wrong.

 

He thought he was somehow broken.

 

By the time Lily had stripped out of her knickers, Remus was on his knees before her, nostrils flaring.  He whimpered, reaching out to her.  Lily pressed her lips together and stepped toward him.  Immediately, his nose was pressed into her dark red curls, inhaling deeply.

 

“So sweet…” he muttered.

 

Lily’s hands found his soft brown hair, falling in waves about his face.  She stroked his hair as his nose inhaled deeper and deeper.  Even she could smell the slight trace of blood from between her thighs.

 

He hugged her thighs, but slowly his hands moved to part them, and Lily widened her stance, never stopping her fingers moving in his hair.

 

His mouth engulfed her sensitive flesh, and a moan passed her lips.  Remus’ tongue tasted, sucking and nipping at her clit, at her hole, cleaning away the blood and juices.  The half moon coincided with her menses, a strange coincidence that Lily thought was partly a boon to help Remus…

 

Lily’s climax came suddenly, and she knew that she had been anticipating Remus’ touch for days, knowing that the half moon was near.  He pulled away slowly, his face smeared with her blood, his long tongue licking at his lips.  She knew part of him felt guilty, but most of him wanted more.

 

“So wrong,” he muttered, his hands moving to his red tie, loosening it.  He pulled at the buttons of his shirt, pulling the tails from his trousers.  “If James ever…”

 

“He won’t,” she whispered, stepping around him to sit on the low stone bench, knees pressed together, thighs rubbing together.  She waited for him to undress, mimicking her by folding and placing his clothing and shoes next to hers on the step.  “And even if he did know…” she trailed as Remus turned back to her, the moonlight pale on his lean, scarred body.

 

“It is not his business,” Remus said gruffly.  “This is the last time, Lily…  He’s going to propose,” he whispered, taking his straining cock in his hand.  “The last full moon of my Hogwarts career is in two weeks…”

 

She sighed, as his hand reached out to her.  Lily took it, Remus pulling her close so that his cock was pressed between them.

 

“I want to fix this…” she whispered up into his face, smelling the heady blood on his cheeks.

 

He kissed her shortly before grasping her wrist to push her right hand to his cock.

 

“You have helped me so much, Lily.  Saved me from doing something that would have me expelled long ago,” he whispered as he moved her hand to stroke him.

 

Lily let her forehead fall against his chest, over his heart.

 

“I want you to be happy…” she whispered between kissing the terrible, self-inflicted, scars on his chest.

 

He hummed as she stroked him firmly, his hands moving to grasp her shoulder.

 

“I will be,” he whispered into her dark red hair.  “Someday…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 954 words


	73. #73 - Light - Hermione/Charlie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #73 – Light. In the light, he touched her as if to defy the day.  
> An aside to 'Whom the Gods Would Destroy'

#73 - Light

* * *

 

 

It was as if a veil was pulled away from the sky, and the light forced him to squint to be able to see clearly without his eyes watering.  After months of no Muggle cars, factories, or pollution, the sun seemed to shine brighter over Britain.  Of course, the heavy, fresh snowfall made the light far more intense, the sun gleaming in a cloudless winter sky and reflecting off the Highland mountains and fields.

 

His boots crunched over the perfect snow, his cheeks and nose cold from the occasional gust of icy winds off the bare mountains.  In his hand, he held her mitten-clad fingers tightly as they trudged to the place that held special meaning to them.  It was the inn that they had made love, and realised, for the first time, how lucky they had been to find each other.

 

“I suppose no one will mind if we move in,” she said, her amber eyes flashing like new galleons in the light.

 

“I suppose not,” he conceded, eyes moving to the snow-covered house, the white painted exterior nearly camouflaging the house completely.

 

Strathfillian House near Tyndrum had once been a Manse, he learned from his companion, and converted later on into the bed and breakfast.  She wanted to come back and settle there. 

 

Charlie Weasley had no objections, seeing the house again with better eyes, his mind not laden with worries about survival.  In the shadow of the entryway, he knocked the snow from his boots as Hermione Granger drew her wand from her arctic coat and cleaned away the small drift of snow from the front door.

 

The inside of the house was cold, as was expected.  It had been cold when they were there last.  However, as Charlie shut the old, oaken door behind him, he let his eyes wander along the small foyer, taking in the house with proper eyes.  This house had been the place where he had healed after nearly dying from a fall off a railroad truss.

 

Hermione was almost giddy as she showed him the kitchens, with tins still on the central table where she had pulled them out.  She showed him the refurbished dining area and the front rooms lit with bright sunlight.  She showed him the upstairs, and lastly the room they had inhabited during their stay.  The only trace of their stay was a stained teacup on a small table under the window.

 

“We can change the rooms as we see fit, lay some wards…”

 

They stood in the brightly lit room, and Charlie ran his numb fingers through his hair. 

 

“One thing at a time…” he said softly, moving to the cold grate and slipping his wand from his coat sleeve to lay a fire.

 

Between the light and the fire, Charlie warmed quickly.  Hermione was lost in thought, chewing her lip silently, her hair glowing a caramel colour from the lit window behind her.  Charlie smirked, sitting on the bed and unbuttoning his coat.  Her hair had finally grown out a bit since she lopped it off in July.  It was early February.  In her heavy snow boots, overlarge blue arctic wear coat and mittens, she looked silly, girlish.  Charlie’s smirk turned into a smile.

 

“Enough of worrying that lip,” he purred, his hand snapping out to grasp her wrist and pull her to the bed. 

 

Hermione made a sound between a shriek and a gasp, and soon Charlie was peeling away her winter clothing to find her skin glowing gold in the light.  He paid little mind to the scars on her body, the pale purple marks that magic would not Vanish away.  He paid little mind to her wide eyes and the shiver that passed through her from the remnants of the cool air in the room.  Instead, he paid homage to her mouth and throat.

 

A year of a new world was on the verge of passing, Charlie knew, and he was having a hard time remembering the world before.  Hermione Granger was all he knew then, and from that point onward.

 

In the light, he touched her, brazenly, as if to defy the day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 692 words


	74. #74 - Dark - Harry-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #74 – Dark. You can hide anything from anyone in the dark, but the darkness knows.  
> An aside to 'The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man.'

#74 - Dark

* * *

It was so dark.

 

Harry Potter thrashed when a hand touched his shoulder, and suddenly he was awake.

 

“I’m sorry to wake you, sir, it’s just…”

 

Harry Potter rubbed his eyes, realising, slowly, where he was.  He was in a chair by a fireplace in a hovel of a house with rain pounding the ground outside like a fist pounding against a hollow chest of a corpse.

 

“What is it Creevy?” Harry asked hoarsely, glancing about the room and the faces that had been watching him sleep.

 

“The one I was telling you about, Aidoneus, he’s here, and he would like to speak to you.”

 

Harry sighed.  He was hungry, and he wanted those eyes to stop staring at him as if he were some kind of god.

 

“Send him in…”

 

Dennis Creevey moved into Harry’s line of sight, and for the first time, Harry saw someone familiar.

 

“We will have to leave you alone with him…it is the only way he will speak to you…”

 

Harry straightened in his chair, adjusting his old, ragged clothes and feeling for his wand in his sleeve.

 

“Then do it!  Enough talk, just send him in!” Harry hissed.

 

His head hurt, and his vision dimmed slightly as he heard feet scuffing upon the stone floor and bodies moving away from him.  The number of people wanting to be near him was suffocating, he hated it, the people squeezed out the light and left him in the dark.

 

He hated them, but they always did what he wanted them to…  Harry stopped asking why long ago.

 

_“I am Aidoneus.”_

 

Harry glanced up at the door and blinked.  All he could see was darkness.

 

The dark had found him.

 

Harry stood, knocking his chair back and drew his wand.  “What are you?” he hissed.

 

The darkness had taken the shape of a person, a man, and it was far too like a Dementor in Harry’s eyes.

 

_“I am Aidoneus, and that is all you need to know, Mr. Potter.”_

 

The voice was otherworldly, as was the black smoke that seemed to swirl about what should have been a man’s face.

 

_“I am here because Mr. Creevey tells me you need assistance.”_

 

Harry stared into the darkness, losing himself in it, but at the word ‘assistance,’ Harry blinked and shook his head violently.

 

“Yes.  Yes…  Assistance.”

 

The darkness shifted slightly as Harry lowered his wand, the Elder Wand.  He moved stiffly, picking up his chair and sitting again by the fire.  Slowly, the light of the fire soothed him even as darkness hovered near the doorway.

 

Harry considered making a motion that the creature called Aidoneus sit, but thought better of it.  The figure seemed to hover resolutely before the door.

 

_“The nature of this assistance involves Hermione Granger and her connection to the Department of Mysteries, does it not?”_

 

Harry’s emerald eyes narrowed. 

 

“What do you know of her?” he growled, and he felt a hot jealousy trickle into his chest, damping the spark of his anger.

 

_“I know many things, Mr. Potter.  Please explain what it is you intend to do, and perhaps I can assist you with the information I can provide.”_

 

Harry tamped down the revulsion he felt at the sight and sound of the figure.

 

“You are a creature of information, is that it?”

 

The darkness seemed to nod, but Harry could not be sure.

 

Harry stared into the dark of the face of what should be a man’s, or a monster’s.  There was something in the darkness that ebbed and flowed, obscuring something underneath.  There was also something true about that dark, something that soothed Harry Potter though he was at a loss as to how to explain it.

 

“I need Hermione.”

 

Harry blinked at the sound of his own voice, but continued.

 

“I need her to get to the…” Harry trailed, considering Aidoneus again.  “If you are a creature of information, you already know what I need, and why I need it.”

 

The darkness shifted slightly as the head nodded again.

 

 _“Do you even know how to begin, Mr. Potter?”_ the phantom asked.

 

Harry’s eyes narrowed.

 

_“By injuring Hermione Granger, you have only set a great obstacle in your path.  Her hate for you will fuel her to hedge your every move.”_

 

The odd, otherworldly voice seemed to flow over Harry’s disrupted mind like a balm.

 

_“If you are so determined to have her as key to what it is you desire, the only way to do that is to capture her.”_

 

Harry’s face contorted.  “And how can I do that?  I have no idea where she is!”

 

The phantom shifted again.

 

_“In two days she will be outside of Hogsmeade on the lane to the Shrieking Shack.”_

 

Harry’s eyes widened.

 

“How do you…”

 

_“I know because it is my role and my duty to know, Mr. Potter.”_

 

Harry said nothing.

 

Yes, the dark knew everything, every secret whisper, and every fibre of a man’s being.  In the darkness, you could hide anything from anyone, but you could not hide from the dark itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 845 words


	75. #75 - Shade - Hermione/Cedric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #75 – Shade. Her shade pinned him in place.

#75 - Shade

* * *

 

 

 

Piazza San Marco was always crowded with tourists, that was a given in Venice, but Hermione Granger tried hard to appear that she was a tourist, she was not of course, having come to study the Wizarding aspect of the Doge’s Palace nearby.  With the permission of the Italian Ministry of Magic, she was allowed to study the extensive portrait gallery deep in the damp bowels of the palace as it barely clung to a sandbar of the river delta that was Venice.

 

It was autumn, but still the air was heavy with humidity, and Hermione considered stopping from her sojourn between tourists for something cool to drink, to find shade.  It was as she passed the famous Caffé Florian that she did stop, not because she had found the outdoor tables and chairs cool in the shade of an awning, but because of a person she noticed sitting with a book in hand, smoking a black rolled cigarette, reaching for a small cup of espresso.

 

Stepping into the shade, Hermione was immediately approached by a waiter, who after looking her fashionable clothing up and down, seated her two tables away from the man she could not stop staring at.  Hermione Granger, age thirty-one, was dressed in a Versace dress, blue patterned with lotus blossoms of pink, Gucci heels, and matching dark blue handbag, was a vision of haute couture.  Her long caramel curls were pinned from her face, her conservative makeup strategically placed.  She was a professional, a historian, and had approximately half an hour to meet with her contact in the Palazzo.

 

She ordered a bottle of water and mint ‘granita’ barely moving her eyes to the waiter who commented on how warm it was even in October.

 

The man two tables away was oblivious to her blatant stare and narrow eyed scrutiny, but continued reading ‘Crime and Punishment’ in its original language, occasionally leaving his cigarette in the ashtray to lift his drink to his lips.  Grey eyes moved over the words slowly, and at times his lips would move to silently incant the Russian words.  From time to time, a breeze would blow from the Grand Canal, and long strands of honey-coloured hair would fall into his face and long fingers would brush them from his eyes.

 

When the mint ‘granita’ came, Hermione ate slowly, barely relishing the cool taste of ice and mint.  Hermione was too consumed with the fact that the man she watched had been dead for years; then again, the man could just have a shocking resemblance to that boy, and nothing more.  There was only one way to find out, she supposed, and slowly she rose from her seat and walked to stand just next to the handsome man, who looked to be in his early thirties.

 

He had not noticed her at first, until he moved to turn the page of the book.

 

“Is there something the matter, miss?”

 

He was British, that much was certain, and his voice was deeper, but still one she knew she would never forget.  He studied her face, her clothes, and slowly she could see his eyes change, darken.

 

“I’m sorry to come up to you like this, sir, but you resemble someone I knew years ago…”

 

His lips tightened, and he shut the book, placing it on the tabletop.  “I very much doubt that, miss…”

 

“Granger, Hermione Granger.”

 

Hermione was not so out of practice to be able to see well disguised panic in someone’s face.  She was not an Auror any longer, but when she was, she had been a damn good Auror.

 

“I’m sorry, Miss Granger, but I think you are mistaken, now if you’ll excuse me…”

 

He threw down twenty Euro and snatched up his book and pack of cigarettes before rising away from Hermione.  Hermione bit her lower lip, and moving as quickly as she could, tossed fifty Euro on her table and took off into the sunlight after the man.

 

It was impossible, utterly, completely impossible that she would find a dead man sitting at Caffé Florian, having a late afternoon espresso.  All the same, she wove through the crowds of tourists, her eyes locked upon the handsome honey-coloured locks, the black sports coat over a loose dress shirt, black trousers and expensive Italian leather shoes.

 

He moved toward the Basilica, and once he slipped inside, Hermione decided to run.  It did not matter that she only had twenty minutes to meet with her contact, she had to know.

 

As she entered, her eyes scanned the dim light inside the Basilica, slowly adjusting.  When she finally found him in the left transept, in St. Peter’s chapel, he was staring at vaulted and golden ceiling.  She moved quietly until she stood just at his right.  There were almost no tourists about, and she ventured a whisper.

 

“Cedric…”

 

His reaction was violent, and he jumped away, nearly jumping into a pillar.  His book fell from his hand, the paper slapping against the stone floor, causing an echo.  No one seemed to pay any mind.

 

“I saw you dead, myself, over fifteen years ago.  And yet, here you are…” Hermione whispered, turning toward him.

 

Cedric, having recovered from his fright, picked his book up and straightened his jacket.

 

“You are mistaken…Cedric Diggory is dead.  How can I be him?”

 

He turned to walk out of the small chapel, but Hermione moved, gliding soundlessly over the floor to block his exit.  She had never mentioned Cedric’s last name.

 

“How indeed?  What is truth and what is lie, Diggory?  I am not going to leave your side until I know.”

 

He grinned, his grey eyes flashing in the light of the many candles lighting the chapel.  “Then you had better keep up, Miss Granger, because until you can pin me down, curse me with that bit of wood hidden in your pocket, and expose yourself to all these Muggles, you will hear nothing from me,” he growled, his angelic face melting into the like the demonic representations of Satan in the paintings and mosaics of the Basilica.

 

Hermione narrowed her eyes, and gave the thirty-three year old wizard the smile that chilled her best friends Harry and Ron to the bone.  Hermione Granger was not a witch to be underestimated, especially not underestimated by a dead man.

 

“Oh, pinning you down will not be a problem, Mr. Diggory,” she whispered in the shade of the arch of the barrel vault, the cool sanctity and faint odor of dank crypt reminding her of a time in her life when shadow and shade had been her medium.

 

Cedric Diggory’s face melted again into a visage of that of a man trapped in Hermione Granger’s frightening shade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,212


	76. #76 - Grief - Ron/Pansy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #76 – Grief. Grief turned to terror, and he wondered if she had the ‘seeing eye.’  
> Part of 'The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man'

#76 - Grief

* * *

 

 

Ron found her side of the bed cold, and with a sigh, he sat up, glancing to her Muggle digital clock, the red numbers reading four in the morning.  Rubbing the lingering traces of sleep from his blue eyes, he threw back the sheets and arose from bed.

 

Peering down into the studio, he found her sitting with a blankets wrapped about her shoulders, staring at her latest painting, the distant lights of the East Side across the park making her paler than usual, and her bobbed ebony hair gleam.  Padding down the steps, Ron shivered, dressed in only a pair of boxer shorts.  She had turned the thermostat down again, and snow was beginning to fall outside the floor to ceiling windows to the New York street below.

 

“I’m finished,” she whispered, as Ron came to stand behind her, rubbing his bare arms briskly.

 

Ron said nothing, but glanced up to the large canvas on the easel, his teeth chattering—cold and in shock.

 

The paint on the canvas barely moved, but as it did, so did the painted representation of the body hanging upside down from a gnarled yew tree with a silhouetted chapel behind it.

 

Ron had seen the Pensieve records, from his old friend’s mind, and that of Draco Malfoy, the two people who had witnessed the scene.  Pansy had captured the blood, the cataracts over once brilliant emerald eyes, and the rigor of death far too accurately for Ron’s taste.  It had been two years since the night he carried Hermione Granger into Hogwarts and listened to her words.

 

_‘I killed him…’_

 

Pansy made a soft noise and Ron’s attention fell to her again.  Crouching behind her, he wrapped his thick arms about her, pulling Pansy against him and relishing her warmth.

 

“It is a relief to finish,” she whispered between sobs, “But Ron…”

 

“I know, Pans…”

 

She twisted against him and together they huddled on the paint-strewn floor, wrapping their arms about each other in a fierce embrace.

 

Pansy’s tears wet his bare shoulder, and the heat sufficed him and washed through him.  Ron knew that Pansy had taken so much upon herself by painting the story of their friends—alive and dead.  Now, it was over.

 

“Hermione and Draco can never see this painting,” Pansy whispered into the side of his neck.

 

Ron understood.

 

“It is going to get so much worse now, Ron.”

 

He stiffened and pulled back slightly to look down into her dark blue eyes.

 

“What do you mean, Pans?”

 

Pansy’s eyes were distant, much as they were when she was in the midst of painting.  Ron had always wondered about his fiancé, if she had a bit of the ‘seeing eye’ in her.  Her intuitions were usually correct, when she shared them. 

 

She pulled away and stood, the blanket slipping from her shoulders to puddle on his lap.  Pansy was only in her knickers, and Ron wondered if she were as cold as he was.  However, she moved to the far wall were several large canvases rested below the mural she had painted on the stone wall several weeks ago of a starry sky.  Pulling a large canvas from the bunch, one that was as tall as she was and nearly as wide, Pansy turned it to Ron.

 

It was a forest fire, or so Ron thought at first, but as he narrowed his eyes, he could see figures moving before the fire, shadows.  Figures of centaurs and other creatures ran and darted about the foreground, and standing like two statues in the centre of it all, were their friends.

 

Standing back-to-back, wands drawn, a pale haired man and a caramel haired woman faced the fire and a darkness moving in the forest.  Fear coursed through Ron for a moment, a fear that reminded him of the something from a nightmare—terror.  It was unexplainable, but Ron felt it clench his heart.  Then, he exhaled, and the terror was gone.

 

Pansy’s tears were renewed, making her cheeks sparkle in the ambient city light reflecting on the underside of the snow laden clouds overhead.

 

“What is this?” Ron asked in a whisper, still crouching on the floor.

 

“What is to come…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 701 words


	77. #77 –Tears - Teddy-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #77 –Tears - Innocent tears fell on guilty flayed, flesh.  
> This is an accompaniment to ‘Whom the Gods Would Destroy…’

#77 –Tears

* * *

 

 

 

There was a strange sound, one that seemed to overpower the other voices on the King’s Cross platform and the hiss of steam from the red engine.  He could hear it somewhere nearby, and he slipped his hand out of his grandmother’s.

 

There was a waiting room just behind him, empty now that the children were beginning to board the train.  He had about ten minutes, he supposed, enough time to find the source of the sound that grated on his nerves and set his teeth on edge.  His grandmother had always commented on how keen his senses were, and sometimes he wished he could just turn it all off.

 

He turned, looking into the doorway of the waiting room, and then took a step toward it.

 

“Teddy, dear, where are you going?” his grandmother asked.

 

“Just here, Gran, there’s a funny sound…” he trailed, waiting for two giggling girls to pass before him before taking another step.

 

He heard his grandmother sigh, but did not look at her.  Instead, he moved to the door, peeking inside the empty and dimly lit waiting room. 

 

The sound was coming from under one of the benches toward the back of the room.  It was a high-pitched scream, and as Teddy knelt down to look at the bundle of dirty rags, what he saw repulsed him.  It was a baby, tiny, bloody, and in pain.

 

How could someone do something so horrible to a baby, Teddy wondered.  Why wasn’t there someone around to find it?  Could they not hear the pitiable cries?

 

Tiny hands and feet poked out of the bloody rags, the skin seemingly burnt and stripped away.  Teddy swallowed thickly, the smell of excrement and blood becoming too much.  The screams were endless, and it pulled at Teddy.  He had to save the baby, it did not matter if he was late for the train on his first day, and it did not matter if his Gran were upset with him.  He could not leave the baby alone.

 

His hands shook as he reached for the bundle, and he wished he were able to use magic, his wand idle in his pocket.  He wished he could somehow silence the baby, or clean it at the very least.

 

“There, there,” he whispered, so close to vomiting that his voice sounded strange, strained.

 

The bundle seemed to weight a ton, and the baby inside, whose face Teddy could now see, was horribly pinched and disfigured.  Dark blue eyes were streaming hot tears down a bloody face, tiny fingers reaching toward Teddy.  Pulling the baby close, Teddy felt his own tears falling from his light brown eyes.

 

How could someone be so cruel?

 

The baby’s cries softened, feeling Teddy’s arms about it, and hiccuped as it looked into Teddy’s face.

 

“There now, I have you, you’re safe,” Teddy whispered through tears. 

 

Teddy did not know much about babies; Gran would never let him play much with the tiny ones.  He could play with Vicky Weasley, she was only a year younger, but not with Uncle Harry’s little ones.  Teddy was strong for his age, unnaturally so, and many times he heard Uncle Harry and Uncle Bill talk about whether it had to do with Teddy’s father.

 

He did not know his father, his father was dead, but what he heard about his father was more like fairy stories.  It was the same with his mother.  Both were heroes.

 

Teddy sighed as the baby’s blood hands reached for his face, and he tried to smile, tried to be reassuring.

 

In some ways, Teddy knew what it was like to be left alone.  All he had was his Gran, Voldemort had taken everyone else.

 

When the tiny hands touched Teddy’s face, he smiled.  However, something felt wrong.

 

Teddy was not sure what it was, but the way the baby’s eyes gazed into his was not normal for a baby, at least, Teddy did not think so.  The little eyes were intelligent, wrong.

 

Blinking, the bloody hands slipped from Teddy’s face, and Teddy rocked the baby gently in his arms.  “I’ve found you, little baby, I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Teddy whispered even as the sounds outside the waiting room grew louder.  It was the anxiety and energy of students boarding the train, parents, and whole families wishing the children well.

 

Teddy only had his Gran…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Teddy?” Andromeda Tonks called, peeking into the waiting room.  “Dear, are you alright?”

 

Teddy Lupin was standing at the far end of the waiting room and at the sound of her voice, turned, smiling brightly.

 

“I’m alright, Gran.”

 

Andromeda blinked, noticing that there was a smudge of something dark on his cheek, and she sighed, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve, strategically placed there lest she get teary eyed at Teddy’s departure.

 

“Come along then, you’ll miss the train!” she admonished lightly, smiling at her grandson.

 

Teddy walked to her, his hands in the pockets of his denims, smiling brightly, a little too widely.  He was still smiling when Andromeda wiped the smudge from his cheek.

 

“Are you excited, my dear?” she asked as they moved to the train after picking up Teddy’s beaten up suitcase with R. J. Lupin embossed on the side of the lid.

 

Teddy chuckled, something Andromeda was not used to hearing.  Her grandson had a distinct laugh, much like Nymphadora’s.  “I’m very excited, Gran.  I cannot wait for the Sorting ceremony.”

 

Andromeda watched Teddy get on the train, his trunks already stowed.  He closed the door behind him, pushing down the window to stand on the tips of his toes to reach out to her.  Andromeda lifted her chin and tried to smile.

 

“I’ll send an owl tomorrow, I promise, Gran.”

 

The whistle on the train sounded, startling Andromeda.  Their fingers brushed as the train lurched.

 

“I love you, Teddy,” she called out, lifting her hand and handkerchief to wave.

 

Teddy smiled as the train began to leave, his head leaning out the window.  It was then Andromeda realized that Teddy’s warm and caring brown eyes were a hard, dark, and loveless blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,018 words


	78. #78 - Lies - Hermione/Cedric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #78 – Lies. It had to end somewhere.

#78 - Lies

* * *

 

 

 

 

Hermione Granger sat upon the wide windowsill looking down on the narrow alley below.  The Hotel “Bernardi-Semenzato” did not afford a grand view of the Venetian canals, but of the adjacent building.  It was not the deluxe room, but it was a pleasant room all the same, a single with a large bed, a nice bathroom, and exposed beam ceiling.

 

Sitting upon the bed was a man Hermione had seen dead years ago, when they were both mere children.

 

He had finished his explanation, albeit coerced by the wand in Hermione’s hand, resting upon her bare knee just below the hem of her Versace skirt.  The explanation had taken all night and most of the morning, but Hermione was satisfied.

 

Everything she had known since the rebirth of Voldemort had been a lie.

 

“My parents still think I am dead.  I can never return to Britain.  For years a glamour hid my face, but yesterday, when you saw me at the Caffé Florian—that was the first time it did not work.”

 

Dumbledore had set the glamour, given Cedric Diggory instructions, and that, as Hermione thought, was that.  Cedric Diggory had only ever caught part of the Killing Curse, making him appear dead, when in fact his body had merely shut down to heal.  Laying in a coma for over a year, Cedric was hidden in Bulgaria by none other than his Tri-Wizard comrade, Viktor Krum.

 

“I lived as a Muggle, worked as a Muggle, only a few times did I risk using magic, and those times had been when I thought someone was getting too close to the truth.”

 

“So, why did I notice you?  Why can you tell me the truth now?”

 

Cedric shook his head, not knowing the answers.  The initial shock and fear had waned, and as Hermione looked upon him sitting on the bed, she saw a man who was just as angry as she was, a man who knew the truth from her point of view.

 

“I could have fought, I could have helped!”

 

Hermione had said nothing.  It was clear that Dumbledore had counted on Harry believing Cedric dead.  In fact, medically Cedric had been dead.  Harry had seen the Thestrals the next year.  However, Cedric Diggory was very much alive before Hermione Granger.

 

“The lies…  I cannot believe how the lies have perpetuated themselves.  I only knew what the media was reporting.”

 

Hermione’s anger spiked.  “But you were told to stay hidden because everyone believed you dead!”

 

Cedric’s face twisted only for a moment.

 

“It is not so simple, Granger.”

 

“Then convince me.  Convince me why I should not take you back to Britain, set you face to face with Harry Potter and let him take his anger and betrayal out on you!”

 

Cedric grimaced.  “I am not the cause of this.”

 

“But you helped to construct the biggest lie of all.  Voldemort was not the wizard to be feared, it was Dumbledore!  Even yet, Dumbledore’s influence is ruining the lives of people I love!”

 

Cedric held his head in his hands.  “I just want to do right, Granger, and if it means returning home, I will do it.  The lies have to end somewhere.”

 

Hermione said nothing after that remark, and that was where they sat, silently.

 

Dumbledore had orchestrated a war, using Harry and Cedric as pawns.  Cedric had been sacrificed first.  And to what end?  The extermination of Grindelwald by Voldemort, and Voldemort by Harry Potter, all to bring the Hallows together, all to sacrifice the man who would have surpassed Dumbledore in prowess and power:  Severus Snape.

 

A conspiracy upon a conspiracy, all selfish, all destructive, and all, as far as Hermione Granger was concerned, all of it was about to come to an end with the man sitting on the bed below her.

 

She was going to blow the world to pieces, if she had to.  The lies had to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 654 words


	79. #79 - Truth - Hermione/Fred/George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #79 – Truth. They wanted to know how she felt.

#79 - Truth

* * *

 

 

“Tell us something, luv.”

 

Hermione was nearing the bottom of her pint, and considered ordering another, but Rosmerta seemed busy for the other patrons.

 

“Some of the boys in school had a theory about you.”

 

Hermione stared across the booth at Fred Weasley.  George sat at her right, his arm about her shoulders.  They had claimed they wanted to celebrate the opening of their new shop in Hogsmeade, and Hermione, being the closest friend, a professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts, she had been the first, and apparently, only friend they invited out.

 

“What theory is that?” Hermione asked, suddenly feeling drunk, she had only had two pints.

 

“That you were a bookish, prude, who would not even let a boy kiss you, or touch you,” George supplied.

 

Hermione was in the middle of a drink, and began laughing, spewing foamy ale out of her nose.  Sloppily wiping away the ale, she set the glass down.

 

“Who told you that?”

 

Fred grinned.  “Just a rumour…”

 

“Well, like most rumours, there is only ever an ounce of truth, and mostly fiction.”

 

“So tell us, Hermione,” George hummed into Hermione’s ear.  “The truth.”

 

Hermione finished her drink, and immediately, Fred was up from the booth and back in almost a blink with another pint of pale ale for her, and bitters for himself and his brother.

 

“The truth is…what was the question?” Hermione laughed.

 

“Let’s start simple.  Were you a virgin all through school?”

 

Hermione rolled her eyes.  “No.”  She blinked, wondering why the answer had come so quickly and easily.

 

“Who was it…what was it like?” George purred.

 

“Viktor Krum…awkward.”

 

The Twins grinned.  “How so?”

 

Hermione sipped her ale before answering.  “ _He_ thought I did not know anything about sex…”

 

They laughed, and Hermione stared at her ale.  Something was not quite right…

 

“It was not just him…Harry too…that one time in what would have been Seventh Year…”

 

Hermione wanted to slap a hand over her mouth, but she continued speaking.

 

“He was so gentle, too gentle…I had to take initiative, show him what it was to worship someone’s body…and I think it came as a shock that I swallowed after I gave him…” she trailed.

 

The Twins shared a look that Hermione could not decipher.

 

“But before that…Neville…he is not as bumbling or tubby as he looked.  He would dress that way on purpose…  He knew a woman’s anatomy as if he had been studying it for a lifetime.  Neville’s tongue was not made for stuttering or whimpering, but to fit just inside my body…and his…his…he was the one to teach me how to climax, how to have a true orgasm…”

 

Hermione finally slapped a hand over her mouth as the Twins gaped at her.

 

Veritaserum, or something like it…it was in her ale.

 

“So, you’re saying that during the years you were ‘in school’ you had sex, initially, with Viktor Krum…”

 

“…which we suspected, hell, everyone suspected,” George continued.

 

“Then Neville…in Sixth Year?”

 

Hermione involuntarily nodded even with her hand pressed over her mouth.

 

“That Neville-nearly-a-squib Longbottom is actually a sex god…”

 

“…and you slept with our brother-in-law before he was our brother-in-law?” George finished.

 

Again, Hermione nodded, her eyes widening.  “Which you can _never_ tell Ginny!”

 

Continuing undaunted, “And all of that was just during your schooldays?”

 

Hermione considered slipping her wand from her sleeve and hex two sets of ‘baby making’ bits off her friends.

 

“You’ve slipped something in my drink…just to know about my early sex life?”

 

Another shared look.  Hermione pushed her drink away.

 

George’s arm tightened around her, slipping from her shoulders to her waist.

 

“In part only.”

 

“The other part?” she asked

 

Fred grasped her hands.  “See if you’d be game…”

 

“…for some experimentation,” George finished.

 

Hermione frowned. 

 

“The truth is not always so easy…”

 

“…so here’s the real question.”

 

“Do you like us, Hermione?” they asked in unison.

 

“Because, if you haven’t figured it out, we really like you…”

 

“And we’d like to show you just how much,” George finished, his fingers curling about her hip.

 

Hermione’s eyes moved from one grinning, handsome face to the other, blood red hair, blue-green eyes…

 

“Do you like us?”

 

Hermione shook her head and breathed a laugh.  She had to answer, she felt compelled…

 

“I always have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 711 words


	80. #80 - Lost - Ginny/Blaise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #80 – Lost. He could see that she was lost.

#80 - Lost

* * *

 

 

“Are you lost, little red bird?”

 

She hated him, and she hated his pet name for her.

 

“Let this old raven show you the way home,” he would purr.

 

He had found her skulking the corridors near the Slytherin Common Room, of course, not knowing how close she was to the serpent’s pit.  It was cold in Gryffindor Tower, and it was warmer near the dungeons.  With Snape as Headmaster, and the Carrows turning the school into a prison, Ginny Weasley found herself a little too cold, and a little too hungry.

 

She had been hugging her mother’s knit cardigan about her arms when Blaise Zabini found her.  He had been in the corridor, in the shadows, smoking a long black cigarette leaning against a suit of armor, blowing smoke into the visor.

 

“I am not lost,” she said, straightening her back and lifting chin.

 

Blaise grinned, his perfect teeth so white in the muted torchlight in the corridor.  “It is too late for pretty red birds for you to be out.”

 

Ginny sniffed.  “That’s none of your business, Zabini.”

 

Pushing off the wall and crushing the cigarette under the heel of his expensive Italian leather boot, Zabini stood before Ginny, hands in his pockets, verdant eyes examining her face.

 

“It is not safe to be here, now, and alone, Weasley.  So, I think you _are_ lost.”

 

Ginny took a step back, smelling the aromatic scent of cloves on his breath.

 

“You need a wash, some clean clothes, and sleep.  You Gryffs have it hard, and you, you are a Pureblood, a blood-traitor, but a Pureblood…” he muttered, his eyes taking the frayed state of her clothes, the dirt smudged on her cheek and the dark circles under her eyes.

 

Ginny smirked.  “And I suppose you’ll offer me all that?”

 

Blaise nodded once, his long dark plaits sliding over his wide shoulder clad in impeccable robes like hundreds of tiny black snakes.

 

“For what in return?”

 

Blaise’s green eyes widened slightly, as if he were shocked that Ginny would suggest that he could not be charitable.

 

Ginny narrowed her eyes, hugging her arms tighter about her body.  “For what?”

 

Blaise grinned again, his face like an ever-changing mask of ebon beauty.  “Sleep with me.”

 

Ginny turned on her heel and started to stalk back to the deplorable conditions of Gryffindor Tower and the hopelessness there.

 

“I did not say sex, Weasley.”

 

Ginny stopped, staring down at the frayed hem of her skirt, the dinginess of her socks and scuffs on her shoes.  Since the Carrows, since Harry left, everything, Hogwarts, had gone to hell.

 

Slowly she turned, her eyes blazing.

 

“After a hot meal, a _private_ bath, a clean night dress—sleep with me.”

 

Ginny watched the mask change, the muscles stretched over high cheek bones relaxing, sculpted lips loosening from a tight smirk, eyes softening.  It was a ploy, Zabini was a poser, but as he stretched out his hand to her, Ginny found herself taking it.

 

In truth, she _had_ been lost.  She had been lost when Harry and Ron had left.  She had been lost since Snape and the Death Eaters came into the hallowed halls of Hogwarts.  She had been at a loss of what to do. 

 

Zabini fed her, let her bathe, and gave her a soft white night dress to wear.  Her tattered uniform was replaced, and her mother’s cardigan cleaned.  The Slytherins had private rooms, private baths, and Ginny felt as if she had stepped into another world, or someone’s dream.

 

It was a dream, a dream that she knew she should not have.

 

Lying next to Blaise Zabini in an obscenely large four-poster bed with only a warm fireplace lighting the room, Ginny did not feel his fingers playing through her hair as she lay against his bare body.

 

She was lost and spiraling downward to hopelessness.

 

Ginny had been left behind to become lost.  It was unfair, all of it, but as she pressed tighter into the warmth of Blaise’s side, she simply wanted to feel warm again.  Her cheek rested against his shoulder, his arm about her, cradling her small body against his warm and solid form.  His eyes were closed, his bare chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm.

 

And with a breath, Ginny realised, as if waking, that she was betraying someone, everyone, everything that she believed in and had been fighting for simply by relishing the warmth and closeness of Blaise Zabini’s embrace.  However, she could not will herself to fight it.

 

Ginny Weasley was lost, and in being lost, she could continue to spiral down to some new truth as Blaise Zabini slowly warmed her from the inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 783 words


	81. #81 – Tease - Rose/Scorpius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #81 – Tease. Enough was enough.

#81 – Tease

* * *

 

 

Rose did not like to be teased, and when she was younger, she particularly disliked her cousin James for teasing her.  If it was not the way she looked, it was about her exceptional grades, or it was about the House she had been Sorted.  Slytherin…

 

She had been the first Weasley in time immemorial who had been Sorted into Slytherin, and she had suffered for it.

 

“You could have told that old Hat you wanted to be in Gryffindor with James and Albus, you could have chosen, Rosie!” her father admonished in her first letter after being Sorted.

 

Even her father teased her.

 

However, up into her Sixth Year, the teasing had turned into something else.  Now with Hugo, James, who was in his last year, and Albus, in her own year, had formed what she considered a gang to deride her almost every chance they got.  Her own brother, who had been sorted into Ravenclaw, had joined the Gryffindors in teasing and name-calling.

 

The first Weasley in Slytherin.

 

Rose ignored them, refusing to get mad after wasting so much energy on trying to get back at her brother and cousins.  They humiliated her every chance they got, and it did not seem to matter that they were family.

 

Just before Halloween had been the worst, and Rose knew that she could no longer hold in her anger, and her loneliness.

 

Albus had sent one of the great floating pumpkins in the Great Hall, crashing down upon her head just as everyone had sat down for the feast.  But it did not stop with ripe pumpkin and candle wax staining her robes and wetting her long caramel hair.  Her own brother, from the other side of the Hall, tossed Dungbombs at her feet, and soon she was lost in a cloud of putrid purple smoke.

 

Calmly, Rose turned and walked out of the cloud, leaving her bag with her school work, and moved through the front doors and across the grounds.  She drew her wand and tried to cast a cleaning Charm, only to find that at some point one of her relatives had replaced her oak and Caladrius feather wand with a trick wand of Weasley manufacture.

 

Rose came to the shore of the Lake after beginning to walk a bit faster away from the castle, thinking that maybe James or Albus would follow her to play more pranks upon her.  She was wandless, and she was coated in pumpkin, and smelled of some combination of hippogriff dung and rotten tomatoes.  Kneeling next to the black surface of the water, Rose washed her face, doffing her stained robes and throwing them into the dark, not caring if she ever saw them again.

 

The sound of footsteps into the rocky shore made Rose freeze, water cupped in her hands.  She would fight them with her bare hands, even her little brother, if she had to.  Enough was enough!

 

“Here.”

 

In the dark, with only the moonlight reflecting off the surface of the water, Rose raised her pale honey eyes to see the boy who was not ever supposed to talk to her, reaching his hand out with her wand between his fingers.

 

“How did you…?” she started, dropping the water in her hands, and snatching her wand from the pale boy’s hand.

 

“I noticed James had it sticking out of his robes before dinner.  I lifted it.”

 

Rose backed away, casting cleansing Charms over her, dispelling the gooey stain of pumpkin and the acrid stench of the dung-bomb.  She stared at the boy on the shore, his pale eyes, his pale skin, his pale hair and loose about his face, hanging in silver white curtains, hiding his features.

 

“You should not have come here, Scorpius.  If someone sees you…did anyone see you leave the castle?” Rose whispered, hugging herself now that her robe was lost in the dark.

 

Scorpius shook his head, his luxurious hair floating on the breeze.  Rose sighed, her eyes moving to his crooked tie, to the embroidered Gryffindor patch on his chest, and the prefect’s badge.

 

If Rose’s father had been angry with her Sorting, Scorpius’ father had been livid. 

 

“If they knew, Rose, if they knew about us…” Scorpius whispered.

 

Rose tensed.  “No!” she hissed.  “It is bad enough that they believe they can get away with teasing me because we are family…what do you think they will do when they learn that I am not related to the Potters at all?  Hugo is still my brother…and I love him.”

 

Scorpius’ pale eyes moved to his feet.  Rose sighed again.  Scorpius had opted to be in Gryffindor, thinking the Rose would be in Gryffindor…  He had wanted to be near her since the beginning.  It was strange how things worked out.  Scorpius was a not friend to her cousins, and in fact they hated each other although being in the same House.  James and Albus feared Scorpius, and they had good reason to fear the Malfoy heir.  Scorpius was the brightest student in Gryffindor, he was also the best Seeker since Harry Potter, and he was far more handsome than any of his housemates.  He was also Rose’s half-brother.

 

“This has to stop, Rose.  The Slytherins are retaliating in your defence, the Gryffindors are actually trying to hurt you, and not just your cousins.  Hugo told me that the Ravenclaws are beginning to join the Gryffindors in their teasing,” Scorpius said softly, moving toward Rose, causing her to back away on instinct.

 

“I don’t need your help, Scorpius.  There are already rumours about us…and it has nothing to do with whether or not we are seeing each other…rumours about my mother and your father…” Rose whispered, her lips trembling.

 

Scorpius sighed and raised a hand to touch her, but Rose skirted away, deeper into the shadow of the trees.

 

“You’re not the bastard child, Scorpius…you’re not the one who has to live everyday knowing that you don’t belong,” Rose whispered.

 

In the moonlight, Scorpius’ face was strained.

 

“So, don’t _you_ tease me with some declaration that everything is going to be alright!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,018 words


	82. #82 - Anger - Remus/Tonks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #82 – Anger. He could not be angry with her.

#82 – Anger

* * *

 

 

He could not be angry with her as Dolohov countered the Stunner, the spell smashing into a stone column and sending shards of stone in his direction.  He understood how she felt she had to come to the fight.

 

“Crucio!” a high-pitched voice sang out and Remus Lupin saw his wife, and the mother of his child, spin out of the path of the spell. 

 

Tonks’ face was a mask of unadulterated fury as she cast at her aunt Bellatrix Lestrange, forcing the older woman back, her body slamming into a wall and crumpling.

 

Remus ground his teeth as Dolohov began chuckling.  “Blood against blood, how amusing!”

 

The Stunner connected and Dolohov fell, but only for a moment.

 

Battle raged all around them, and Remus was keenly aware of the losses and injuries.  He could smell the blood and ozone of Dark Magic.  Remus wondered for a moment, where was Teddy?

 

There was no time to regroup with Tonks who was casting Shield Charms as Bellatrix recovered and was furiously trying to beat her own niece down. 

 

It was a shame; part of his mind thought, while his body and the rest of his mind was focused on somehow disabling or killing Dolohov.  The Black family…  Remus feared for his son.  Bellatrix had killed his best friend, and was now attempting to kill his wife.  If somehow Bellatrix were to live, Voldemort win, what would happen to Teddy?

 

For the sake of Teddy, and Tonks, Remus knew he would have to fight harder.  There would be no more losses, there could not be!

 

He wanted to buy a cottage in Tinworth near the Weasleys, he wanted Teddy to have friends like the Weasleys, and he wanted Tonks to be happy with him in the security that was a home.  He knew he was poor, too old, and terribly afflicted, but he would protect them—his little pack.

 

Remus wished Tonks had stayed with Andromeda and Teddy; he wished it with every bit of his soul.  The baby was nursing…

 

The idea of battle stirred the inner wolf, but the body that held the feral beast was tiring.  When the last spell came and Remus felt his body finally give in, he could only see Tonks' back and her brilliant fiery red hair that stood on end with anger.

 

Living took so long, and death even longer.

 

The anger he felt drained away as a flash of green seared his corneas.  He met her eyes as the metamorphoses left her, and her hair was long and brown, like chocolate.

 

There was still anger and regret, but death was a great equalizer and balm.  It would not do to hold onto the anger and damn oneself, he thought as they fell side by side.

 

Love you…always.

 

The light swallowed their souls, but they were needed still, for only a short while.  In death, there was no anger, only peace, and the knowledge that they would not be alone.

 

The battle raged on, and from a distance, they watched as anger surged through their friends at the sight of their peaceful bodies.  Their friends would need the anger to counterpoint their ultimate weapon against the darkness—love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 534 words


	83. #83 - Shy - Luna/Fred/George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #83 – Shy. Luna is not shy…

#83 - Shy

* * *

 

“There’s no need to by shy, come on!”

 

Luna Lovegood stared at Fred and George Weasley with her head cocked slightly.  It was not a matter of being shy, she knew, it was a matter of whether or not the pond water behind the Burrow was infested with an aquatic species of gnargle, if so, she was not going to get into the water. 

 

It was summer at Ottery St. Catchpole, and Luna had been left with the Weasley twins…Harry and Ginny off somewhere in the shade, Ron and Hermione arguing somewhere in the house.  And Luna?  Luna had decided to walk down the road to the Weasley’s following a strangely shaped cloud she had noticed while staring out her bedroom window.

 

Following the cloud had led her to that moment, standing on the bank of the pond, naked except for holding a Weird Sisters tee shirt before her, with Fred and George Weasley staring at her with impish grins.  They had already stripped down to their skin, and were waist deep in the water.

 

“Luna…the water is fine, come on!”

 

It was Fred, and Luna’s bare feet shifted forward, and she lowered the tee shirt a bit, exposing her breasts.  George whistled softly, glancing to his brother.

 

Luna’s blue eyes were fixed on the murky water, and with a sigh, she dropped the tee shirt and moved forward, the water lapping at her toes.  It was hot, and Luna fought back her discomforting thoughts and walked into the water until she was knee-deep, pausing again.

 

“Don’t be shy, Luna…come swim with us!” George yelled back as he began swimming deeper into the water.

 

Luna moved again, waist-deep in the water, the tips of her dirty blond hair floating about her.

 

Fred came closer, and grabbing Luna’s wrist, pulled her into the water…

 

Luna loved to swim, she did so often enough in the river behind her house, but she knew the water there was fresh, clean and creature-free.  She swam under the surface, Fred’s hand moving to hold hers.  She could not see him under the water, but she knew George was near.  The pond was quite large, and when she surfaced, she found that Fred had pulled her toward a shaded part of the pond, trees hanging low to the water, shielding them from the sun, and from anyone watching.

 

“Feels nice, doesn’t it?” George asked, surfacing just behind Luna.

 

Luna nodded, her eyes moving to Fred who had climbed up onto a rock near the shore.  Luna could not touch bottom, and she could feel cold water moving along her feet as she kicked to keep her head above water.

 

Stretching, Fred moved to the edge of the rock, his muscular arms above his wet, shaggy red hair, his chest puffing out, the crimson hair on his chest moving in a line down his body, to his male organ.

 

Luna had seen naked men before, she, at twenty, was no stranger to men.  She had had boyfriends, but to see Fred Weasley preparing to dive, his pale, male body stretched and poised, Luna no longer worried about the safety of the water.

 

George swam up behind her, his arms wrapping about her waist to pull her out of the way as Fred dove gracefully into the water.

 

When Fred surfaced, he laughed, swimming to embrace Luna as well.  Luna could only stare passively at Fred as they pulled her toward the rocky shore.

 

“Why are you so shy, Luna?” George whispered as Luna’s body fit back into his.

 

“Do you not like us?” Fred asked pressing himself between her thighs.

 

Luna blinked slowly.  “Shy?”

 

George grinned at his brother from behind Luna’s lank, wet hair.

 

“You’re saying you aren’t?”

 

Luna did not say anything as she pulled an arm from the water and tangled her fingers into Fred’s hair.

 

Fred hummed as he turned his head into Luna’s hand.  George snickered, his hands moving from Luna’s waist to her full breasts, cupping them in his hands.  Luna blinked again as her toes found the bottom of the pond, standing in the water, the shade of the trees overhead making the water colder.

 

George moved to her side, and grasping her chin, devoured her mouth.  Fred slipped closer, lifting one of Luna’s legs to wrap about his waist so that she floated against him all the while meeting George’s insistent kiss.

 

“She’s not shy of us, after all…” Fred whispered as George pulled away to move behind Luna again, kissing her bare shoulders.

 

Luna sighed as Fred and George kissed and touched her skin, sliding against her, their body hair course even wet.  Even when the pulled her to the shore, laying her down on the large rock Fred had dove from, she returned their kisses and touches.  Luna Lovegood had never been shy in her life, and she wondered idly, even as George lapped at her core and Fred as suckling on her right breast, how in the world anyone would ever think she was shy.

 

Even as brothers switched places, she was concerned that there had been something in the water, that was all.  And as she felt Fred enter her, George cradling her body from behind, she was concerned that perhaps there was maybe some aphrodisiac in the water.  It was strange that she had never felt attraction for the Weasley twins before.  Luna cried out and began laughing, sex was not exactly a method to cool off on a stifling summer day, but she did not mind in the least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 926 words


	84. #84 - Love - Hermione/Cedric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #84 – Love. Cedric would have her love him, even if it were only danger that pushed them together.

#84 - Love

* * *

 

 

His jaw still stung even after a few hours.  Harry Potter had vicious right hook, and Cedric supposed he deserved it.  However, his fist hurt him worse than his jaw, and he knew that at least two of his fingers were broken.  It had been a while since he had used his fists on another person, but as much as Cedric deserved the right hook, Harry Potter deserved the broken nose and jaw.

 

Hermione Granger was whimpering, as she placed purple healing salve on the cut above her blackened eye in the hotel room in South Kensington.  Cedric lay across the foot of the bed, staring at the muted Muggle television, trying to read the newscaster’s lips.

 

“Mother…” she growled, the rest of the expletive disappearing in the sound of a running tap.

 

Cedric sat up slowly, glancing to the window of the room and to the mirror on the wall.  The bruise on his jaw would fade, Hermione having slathered a yellow salve on his face.  However, the swelling had yet to go down.

 

Meeting Harry Potter again after a decade and half of being dead went very much as Cedric expected it to—badly.

 

Returning to Britain was not a mistake, but still Cedric insisted on glamours to obscure his features.  He was not about to shock his old friends and family, and he was not even sure how he was going to approach his parents, if at all. 

 

Cedric Diggory thought of himself as a coward.

 

He was not, of course.  He had stayed away for the safety of his old friends and family, and it seemed that he could not reveal himself even after Voldemort’s defeat.

 

“…fucker!” he heard her say as the tap went off.

 

He sighed, rising to his bare feet, and padding across the room to the en suite lavatory.  What he saw made him grind his teeth and caused his jaw to tinge painfully. 

 

Hermione was nude except for a pair of pale blue knickers, her hair pulled up in a hasty bun, using her wand to heal her face in the mirror.  There were bruises on her back, her thighs, and her hips.

 

Fighting cloaked men in an alley in Knightsbridge after the confrontation with Potter, had proven to Cedric that he still could drop a man with a powerful Stunner, as well as fight under physical duress with a bruised jaw and broken fingers.  Even more, Hermione was wickedly precise with a cutting Curse that he did not recognize, Sectum-somethng.

 

Studying the bruises where she had been slammed into the ground with a Stunner, and hexed, Cedric was struck at how beautiful she had looked with blood running down her face, eye blackened.  She was like a warrior queen, something wild and powerful.

 

“Ced, can you pass me a bandage?  They’re on the edge of the bathtub.”

 

He sighed, moving to the open box with Muggle adhesive bandages, grabbing one, and moving to stand behind her.  In the mirror, he could see that the cut above her eye was not healing fast enough even with the salve.  She tore open the paper to place a bandage over her left brow, frowning at him in the mirror.

 

“This is not how I expected things to go,” she sighed, turning slowly to lean back into the sink.

 

Cedric lifted his chin as her nipples brushed his bare chest.  He wondered if she were so comfortable to allow him to see her half nude.  It made him slightly uncomfortable, in a good way.  He could feel his cock twitch in his trousers.

 

She had stripped his shirt away not long after returning to the hotel room to see to his ribs, which were not broken as she first thought, but definitely bruised.  There was yellow salve on his skin there as well.

 

“I suppose you expected it?” she asked, glancing up into my eyes.

 

Cedric wanted to touch her face, run his thumb over the blackened and bruised skin of her left eye.

 

“I expected something,” he mumbled.

 

She blinked her eyes away, turning stiffly to take her wand up and then step around into the bedroom.

 

“Let’s see to that hand.”

 

Cedric followed soon after, finding that she had donned a robe, sitting on the foot of the bed.  He sat next to her, giving her his right hand, the knuckles bloody and bruised.  As she began to heal the bones and skin, he studied her closely.  Despite the bruises, the way the half open robe fell over her breasts and her thighs made his cock twitch again.

 

She had defended him to Potter, and had taken a blow to the face meant for him.  That alone caused mixed feelings.  He was capable of defending himself, and in that case, he was angry with Hermione.  However, the fact she had stood up to Potter, calling him things that would have made Voldemort blush, it made Cedric’s insides swell.

 

The right hook to her face was what caused Cedric to pummel Potter into the ground.  The Boy-Who-Lived, whatever, Cedric was not going to allow Potter to hurt the woman who was holding his hand, undressed, bruised, and beautiful.

 

He loved her.

 

It was irrational, he knew, but he learned long ago not to deny his feelings.  He loved her the moment he saw her in Venice.  Granted, he had been afraid of her at first, but he was drawn to her.  Hermione Granger could make him do anything if she asked that was why he was in Britain again—she had asked.

 

“I think that will do it,” she whispered, the healing spell ending.

 

Cedric licked his lips; Hermione was still holding his hand.

 

She kissed him tentatively, gently, avoiding the bruised corner of his mouth and the foul tasting salve.

 

“I was wrong,” she whispered, pulling away to stare into his grey eyes.  “You were right…maybe I should not have gone off on a self-righteous tirade to drag you back…  The dan—“

 

He kissed her again, pulling his sore hand from her hand to wrap about the backside of her neck.  He could taste blood, but was not sure whose it was.  Either way, it was sweet to him. 

 

Danger be damned, he thought, he had lived too safely for too long.  He was in love, and that, in itself, was danger.

 

Hermione hummed into his mouth, her hands against his chest, sliding up to wrap her arms about his neck.  Cedric wondered, idly, whom Hermione Granger loved.  Could she love him?

 

He grasped her right breast, pushing the robe aside.

 

Cedric would have her love him, even if it were only danger that pushed them together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,116 words


	85. #85 - Hate - Draco/Cho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #85 – Hate. Until he could find someone to love, he was content to hate her.

#85 - Hate

* * *

 

 

 

Every time he thrust inside her thin, pale body, she always expressed the depth of her hatred for him.  If Draco Malfoy did not know any better, Cho Chang was singing her love for him.

 

He was not kind to her body, and he was in no way gentle as his hands pressed bruises into her knees pushing them back so he could slide his cock in deeper.  She winced, her dark eyes burning with hatred at the way her body reacted to him.  He knew that as much as she hated him, she loved the way he fucked her.

 

The tiny noises she made were all but ignored, because, in truth, Draco hated her just as much.

 

Stroking deeper, Draco leaned into her pelvis, the slick sound of his penetration and subsequent withdraw the only sound he cared to hear.

 

“You not even trying, Chang,” he muttered through gritted teeth, annoyed that her pussy was not clamping tight enough around him and that the angle was affording too much effort on his part.

 

“Fuck you, Malfoy,” she grunted.

 

“That is what you should be doing,” he spat, sliding out of her, releasing his hold on the backs of her knees. 

 

The sticky dampness trailing between their bodies did not amuse or arouse him.  It never had.  It was the hate that did it for him, the fight to see who could outlast the other.  And that afternoon, he was in the mood to hurt her more than usual.

 

With rough hands, Draco twisted Cho’s thin slip of a body so that she was pressed face down into the mattress of her rickety bed in a filthy Diagon Alley flat.  How Chang could have sunk so low was beyond Draco’s care.  All he cared about was getting off, and getting on with the rest of his day not so ready to explode at the next person to come into his sight.  Cho Chang was only an outlet.

 

Cho hissed as Draco rammed inside her again after lifting her ass into the air, old bruises still marring the white perfection of her skin.  Draco hummed to himself, satisfied at the tightness of her core and the angle in which he stroked her.  Grasping her hips, he stroked deeper, harder, and faster than before.  Cho fisted the rumpled sheets under her, her small breasts swaying with every thrust.

 

She hated him, and it was evident in the way she clamped her inner muscles down around him, hoping that he would climax first and leave her alone.  Then again, it had been she who had called him to her flat…

 

A particularly violent thrust caused Cho to wail and begin to sob.  She knew she was closer.

 

Draco continued to ignore her voice, finding it obnoxious and in no way conducive to finding his fill in her body.  He hated her because she felt so good, so tight, and he hated her because she was little more than a galleon whore.  She was pretty when she was painted and dressed, but just as jaded and terrible as she had been after Cedric Diggory died. 

 

Draco grasped her hair in retaliation for his idle thoughts, arching her back so he could soundly fuck her so she would not have the energy to hate him when he was walking out the door.

 

Sweat trickled between his pectorals to his hard belly, and with a grunt, he pulled Cho back to her knees, thrust into her body as if he were the master of her soul.  Cho came first, a throaty scream breaking over sound of the bed springs squealing.

 

Releasing her hair, Draco allowed her body to fall forward into the bed again, but did not stop his movement in and out of her body.  He did not care if she needed time to recover, he did not care much about her at all.

 

When she came again, her dark eyes distant, her mouth open in gasps, Draco finally let himself go, clenching his teeth as he grasped his cock before filling her.  He hated her too much to ever give her his seed in a manner befitting a good woman.  With open-mouthed grunts, he stroked his damp cock until streams of pearly cum landed upon her hip, her back, her hair.

 

For a moment he stared at her tangled limbs and wild, ebon hair, thinking that even thoroughly done, she was still pretty.  He had always thought she was pretty in school, but now, years later, she was nothing but a shell, a warm body with no soul.  That was the main reason why he hated her.  She was nothing.

 

He did not bother casting a Cleansing Charm on the pale woman, but dressed without a word, glancing into a cracked wall mirror to see that his short, platinum hair was not out of place and that there was no rubbish on his expensive Armani suit.

 

“I hate you,” she whispered from the bed, not moving, and barely breathing.

 

“Thanks,” he muttered, smirking at himself in the mirror as he adjusted his tie.

 

“Don’t come back,” she sobbed.

 

He rolled his eyes.  “If I can find a cheaper whore, I don’t plan on it, Chang.”

 

He heard her scream in frustration as he had reached the landing halfway down the stairs and out into Diagon Alley.  Draco wondered if she hated him so much why she bothered to open her door to him at all.

 

In the end, Draco knew, it did not really matter.  Until he could find someone he could truly love, he was satisfied with hating her completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 937 words


	86. #86 - Found - Hermione/Harry

#86 - Found

* * *

 

 

 

Harry had found her.  Hermione stood in the doorway, just as she had four years before, her eyes not looking at Harry Potter’s face, but at the street outside.  Four years ago, it had been a London street, now it was a Boston street.

 

She did not pull him inside, but stepped out of the way to allow him to enter into her old Victorian house set into the corner of an old neighborhood just outside the city.  Boston had been her home, it had been her everything since she began working with the MACUSA as a lawyer.

 

Shutting the door behind her, Hermione turned, and moved into the living room, past the television, the couch, and into the kitchen.  Harry followed closely.

 

It was nearly sunset, and Hermione had been preparing dinner.  Spaghetti and meatballs, garlic bread and a tossed salad.  She resumed stirring the sauce and meatballs as Harry took a seat upon a stool next to the centre kitchen island.

 

“You look well,” he said softly, and she could feel his eyes move up her the backs of her bare legs; she was dressed in a pair of what she called ‘lay-about’ shorts and a tank top.

 

Four years had changed her, her hair was different, her body different.  She was still attractive, but fuller, more substantial with defined muscles.  Hermione had learned early the love of the American gyms, and went regularly.

 

“You have a nice home…”

 

Hermione dropped the wooden spoon she had been using on the counter, moving away from the stove to stare at her old friend, and lover.

 

“How did you find me?” she hissed, her palms slapping against the island counter.

 

Harry’s face drained of colour and he cast his eyes away from her.  He had changed little; only his glasses were different, square rimmed.  He wore Muggle clothes, but the leather jacket was the same.  He looked fit, even his skin seemed browner than she remembered.  A part of Hermione longed to touch him, but she was far too concerned with how and why he was sitting in her kitchen.

 

“I…uh…I asked Neville.”

 

Hermione sighed.  She had not meant to make it a secret that she was leaving Britain, surely Ron or Harry would stop her, but when they didn’t, Hermione had told her one close remaining friend where she was going but not why.

 

“Four years to the day, you decide to show up on my doorstep,” Hermione muttered, noting that Harry was still wearing a wedding band while her own hand was bare.  “Why?  Why now?”

 

She was yelling, and distantly she heard a bump upstairs, and winced.

 

“You never came back, I couldn’t find you.  I looked the best I could considering…” Harry mumbled before raising his emerald eyes to her face.

 

Hermione stood straighter, crossing her arms before her breasts.  “So what happened now?  Ginny angry at you for some stupid reason?”

 

Bile.  She was uttering bile, but she could not help it.  Never once an owl, never once a call, from either of her friends.

 

Harry smirked.  “No.  Nothing like that.”

 

He rose from his stool, and before Hermione could attempt to fight, she was in his arms, kissing her…

 

It had always been like this, Hermione knew.  Harry taking what he wanted.  She wanted to melt into the kiss, hold him close, but…

 

Harry stumbled back as a slap knocked him away, knocking his glasses off his face so that they skidded across the tiled kitchen floor and into the living room.  There was blood at the corner of his mouth, and Harry’s eyes were wide with shock as he held his jaw.

 

“Mummy?”

 

Hermione gasped, her hand moving to support herself against the counter.  Her eyes moved past Harry to the small figure standing through the archway into the living room, a figure that bent to pick up a pair of square framed glasses.

 

Harry quickly wiped the blood from his mouth and turned to see a little boy dressed in a pair of denims, and a Boston Red Sox tee shirt holding his glasses between his small fingers.  Before Harry could take a step forward, Hermione flew with otherworldly grace to kneel beside the boy.

 

“Are you getting hungry, luv?” Hermione cooed, smoothing the boy’s unruly black hair.

 

The boy nodded, but stared at Harry, his hand reaching out to give Harry his glasses.

 

Harry’s body shook as he studied the boy.  From the unruly black hair, to the strange amber/green eyes, Hermione’s lips, his nose…

 

“This is an old friend of Mummy’s…he was just leaving,” Hermione explained.  “Harry Potter…you remember me telling you?”

 

The boy’s face lit up, mouth opening in amazement, jewel-like eyes flickering with light.

 

Harry took the glasses and reapplied them to his face, his vision sharper.  The boy was small, but healthy, and looked very much like his own son back in Britain, who was a year younger.

 

“Go into the kitchen and sit, I’ll have dinner in a moment, luv,” Hermione whispered.

 

The boy smiled at Harry one last time before moving past him in an excited run.  Hermione climbed to her bare feet and sighed.  With a motion of her fingers, Harry followed her to the front door.

 

“Don’t…” she hissed as Harry reached for her, his mouth opening to speak.  “Not now.  Tomorrow afternoon.  Sev will be at school then.”

 

Harry frowned.  “Severus?”

 

Hermione smirked, pleased that Harry seemed uncomfortable.  “Sev.  After your mother’s first friend?”

 

Harry closed his eyes for a moment and shook his head.  He said no goodbyes and Hermione showed him the door, and when he was through, she locked the door behind her.

 

Hermione watched through the peephole as Harry walked across the porch and down the steps to the sidewalk, in a daze.

 

He had found her, and she knew that Harry had not expected in the least what he would find after four years.

 

“Mummy, the pot is boiling over again!” her son’s voice called from the kitchen.

 

Hermione groaned, and jogged to uncover the boiling pot of spaghetti, smiling to her son, who was sitting at the kitchen table, feet dangling over the floor, kicking merrily.

 

Harry had found them, and Hermione wondered what he would do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,042 words


	87. #87 - Life - Harry/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 87 – Life. We make many choices in life.
> 
> A conclusion to the prompts beginning with #4, 7, and 86.

#87 - Life

* * *

 

 

It had been a lifetime ago, she told him, their feelings no longer mattered.  She had left Britain, having lost her ties to the past when he married Ginny, and Ron went to walk his own path.  It had been a lifetime ago…

 

They sat in a little coffee shop down the street from her house, and Harry kept looking about, paranoid that someone was eavesdropping.  He was far from home, far from the life he had chosen when he married Ginny, and far from the son he had in Britain.

 

“I would have left her if I would have known, Hermione,” he whispered.

 

Hermione smirked, holding her coffee cup in her hand, legs crossed at the knee, leaning back in her chair as they sat a table near the front windows of the shop.

 

“No, you wouldn’t have, Harry.  You love Ginny.”

 

Harry could not disagree.  He had been selfish, marrying Ginny, and wanting Hermione as a mistress of sorts.

 

“But that does not excuse the fact…”

 

“I know it doesn’t,” Hermione interrupted, the smirk still on her lips.

 

Harry had yet to touch his coffee.  The American rock music and the strange Bostonian accents of the other patrons in the shop were distracting him.

 

“We have made the wrong choices.  But there is little we can do to fix it.”

 

Harry sighed, pulling his arms from across the table to cross them before his chest.

 

“As far as anyone knows, Sev is my son…the father is unimportant.  And I did not run away because I knew I was pregnant.  I took the job with the MACUSA long before you decided to show up on my doorstep four years ago.”

 

Harry’s eyes narrowed.  He did not know ‘this’ woman he stared at across the table.  The Hermione Granger he knew had only existed in his past life.

 

“He doesn’t know that I’m…” Harry trailed.

 

Hermione shook her head.  “To him, you are a bedtime story hero.”

 

Harry’s heart clenched at her words.

 

“So…what now?” he asked softly.

 

Hermione’s smirk turned into an eerie smile.  “That is up to you, Harry.  You’re the one who suddenly appeared on my doorstep, for a second time, demanding something of me.  Four years ago, I would have given it to you willingly, but now…now, I just want to live my life, and I want my son to be unburdened by our pasts.”

 

He sighed.  “What do you tell him about his father?”

 

Hermione’s smile returned to a smirk.  “That he was a strong man, and he is living his own life, separate from ours.  I have to tell him that this life, our life, is a fortunate one.  We have each other.  His father is a feeling, a figure in the back of his mind.  If he wants to know his father, I will tell him about his father.  For the time being, Severus’ father is not important.  But he will be someday…”

 

Harry closed his eyes.  How could this have happened?  He had asked her that as soon as they sat down.  Contraceptives were not always 100% effective, she said with a sad smile.  She would never consider abortion, her reasoning being she had put herself in the situation of having a child; she would have to take responsibility for her actions…

 

That was life, she said.

 

Life…  Harry had a wife waiting for him at home, and a son, his little James.  And now…another son, one that he did not know, one that did not know him.

 

“Sev will find you when he needs you, Harry.  I, for one, am not going to thrust you upon him and expect him to understand yet.  And when he’s old enough to understand, he may not want to know.  It is his life, his choices…just like the choices we made…they are our own.  They may have not been the right choices, but that is something we are going to have to live with…”

 

Harry agreed.

 

“You used me.”

 

Harry met her eyes. 

 

“You used me like you always used me.  Your brain, your conscious, and your release.  When I first found out that I was pregnant, I hated you.  But I remembered…I wanted you just as badly.”

 

Harry licked his lips and flicked his green eyes to his untouched cup.

 

“But now all I want is my friend back.  And most importantly, I want my son to be happy, to be healthy, to be free of the choices we made.”

 

Her voice had softened.  Harry leaned his elbows on the table again, staring at his hands twitching on the tabletop.  When Hermione’s hands slipped into his, Harry felt a current of magic course between them, a pleasant hum, one he remembered long ago, in another lifetime.

 

“I love you,” he whispered, avoiding her eyes.  “I have always loved you, but I couldn’t…”

 

“Couldn’t leave Ginny, I know, Harry.”

 

“Selfish…I was selfish.”

 

She laughed.  “I know, Harry.”

 

“And as much as I want you and Ginny…the children, I have to choose only one life.”

 

Hermione’s hands squeezed his.

 

“And it cannot be your life over hers,” he whispered.

 

“You have a responsibility, Harry.”

 

He nodded, slowly meeting her eyes at last.  She was smiling still.

 

In another lifetime, he would have chosen her.  He would have kept her at his side.  Unfortunately, that dream, that life, was lost forever the moment he married Ginny.  Harry knew he should have stopped himself, should have taken the moments he had had with Hermione as sign that he had chosen the wrong bride.  But that had been a lifetime ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 932 words


	88. #88 – Fear - Pansy/Charlie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #88 – Fear. She was not afraid as long as he protected her.

# 88 – Fear

* * *

 

 

“It’s alright,” he whispered in her ear, his body tight behind her, his arms about her waist.  “Just move very slow, keep your chin up.  He will respect your intentions as long as you are not afraid.”

 

Pansy was not sure if she could rein her fear as well as Charlie did, but she followed his advice, her hand moving to touch the snout of the young Welsh Green.  The dragon was several years old, Charlie had told her, not so wary of humans yet, and not so keen to taste human flesh.

 

Pansy remembered rolling her eyes at Charlie mentioning ‘blood, viscera, human flesh, it is like sweets to dragons.’  She also wondered how much truth there was to the words, or if she were being teased.

 

“There you go,” he purred as Pansy’s finger moved over the rough, reptilian skin of the dragon’s snout.

 

A part of her swelled with pride, the dragon making a soft cooing snort as she scratched between the dragon’s nostrils, its head bowing to let her.

 

“See, you’re a natural,” he whispered, pressing the front of his dragon hide trousers into her bottom. 

 

Pansy stiffened, feeling Charlie’s arousal through her skirt.  That particular moment to get aroused perhaps was not the best time, she thought.  Pansy sighed, and ignored the way his fingers traced the insides of her thighs through the fabric of her skirt.

 

“Does he have a name?” Pansy asked softly as the smaller dragon’s head moved so she could run her hand over the scales under its frightening yellow eye.

 

“We’ve been calling him Annwn.”

 

Pansy smirked.  “The Welsh god of the underworld?”

 

She felt Charlie shrug.  “I wouldn’t know, never could understand a lot about Welsh mythology…”

 

He ground his erection into her bottom again.

 

“Charlie…” she breathed in warning, the fear returning that ‘Annwn’ would incinerate her if she showed any change in her resolve.

 

“That’s enough, I think,” he whispered, his lips brushing her neck where her cropped hair fell short of her shoulder.  “Let me just get our friend back in with the rest.”

 

Charlie left her, moving carefully, wand drawn, but down.  He glanced back at her, as he seemed to guide the dragon back into the main warded area where there were several other Welsh Greens moving about the landscape, mostly all younger dragons.

 

Pansy felt stupid, knowing hardly anything about dragons other than the various species.  She watched as Annwn’s wings unfurled and he alit the air, gliding back to the others as they moved along the base of the mountain in their Reserve in Wales.

 

“So?  Ready to get up close and personal with a Hebridean Black?” he asked slipping his wand back into his trousers.

 

She laughed, “Not especially.  Watching dragons from here will suffice, Charlie Weasley.”

 

He grinned, handsomely, but still Pansy felt her insides twitching, the fear not yet gone.

 

“A ride then?  Over Y Garn?”

 

She blinked at him.  Danger and fear that was all she think about.

 

Somehow, she could not let Charlie Weasley, her new boyfriend, know about her fear, and she ended up in front of Charlie on a broom, gliding slowly over Welsh mountains.  Pansy wondered exactly how high they were, but it was high enough that a herd of Hebridean Blacks was black dots on the green landscape below.

 

“Scared?” he asked, his arms about her waist, one hand steering the broom.

 

Pansy had barely breathed since take off.  Two riding a broom made for one was a stupid idea.

 

“Petrified,” she laughed nervously.

 

“Well, we cannot have that…”

 

And suddenly the broom was plummeting down toward what looked like a small lake from the sky, toward a progressively growing island in the centre of crystalline water.  Pansy stifled a shriek, her heart in her throat.

 

Land, blessed land, she thought as Charlie helped her onto the rocky ground of the small island.

 

It was not a minute later that he was kissing her soundly, dancing her back into a small copse of trees and grass at the very top of the island.  She wanted to be angry with him; he had been daring and teasing her all day since he invited her to the Reserve in Wales.  However, when their lips parted and Pansy could look about the copse of trees, she realised she was on a campsite.  A magical tent was pitched between to large birch trees; a campfire was burning low with a camp pot over top with coffee, and in a low bower under greenery was a bed exposed to sunlight.

 

“What is this?” she asked suspiciously, her hands curling into Charlie’s jumper.

 

“Our retreat,” he murmured his hands smoothing her ebony hair down from the flight.  “Our anniversary retreat.”

 

She smirked, turning her face back to him, it had only been a few months.  “Oh?”

 

He grinned.  “In the middle of Snowdonia Reserve, surrounded by dragons…”

 

She shivered.  “You _are_ insane.”

 

He chuckled before scooping her small body up in his arms.

 

“Let me show you, Pans, how insane I _can_ be,” he growled seductively, taking her to the bower.

 

Pansy was not afraid, suddenly, and realised as Charlie laid her down to pull off her boots, that he would protect her. 

 

He was a Dragon Keeper, after all…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 881 words


	89. #89 - Hero - Hermione/Viktor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #89 – Hero. He had a habit of saving her.  
> Inspiration for 'Whom the Gods Would Destroy'

#89 - Hero

* * *

 

 

“Get down!”

 

Hermione Granger could not see the source of the barking, male voice, but she complied.  Throwing herself to the rubble strewn street, she felt a Blasting Hex fly over her, and heard the sound of rotten flesh being torn apart.  She did not even gag as a heavy, dead arm landed upon the backs of her knees.

 

“Hurry, ve must run now!”

 

A large, paw-like hand grasped her arm, wrenching her forward and up, and suddenly, Hermione was running.

 

It had been a mistake to go into Brighton, and as she ran, she wondered what possessed her to attempt the city or any city for that matter.  She ran with no regard to direction, or who it was that was dragging her along.

 

The sun had begun to set, and Hermione began to hear the screeches of dead voices behind her.  The streets gave way to a fence and Hermione let her body collide with it, her head buzzing illogical thoughts.

 

“I vill lift you, Her-my-nee…”

 

Hermione blinked, her eyes catching sight of part of a face under a thick cowl of a cloak.  However, before she could speak, she was being lifted and forced to climb.  Jumping over the thick wrought-iron gate, she found herself rolling upon a lawn.

 

“Hurry!  Run to the palace!”

 

With still too much adrenaline to burn, Hermione did not stop to question, but began running up an unkempt lawn to a structure she had only seen in pictures.

 

Brighton’s Royal Palace was a white structure that caught the glowing orange rays of the setting sun as if the structure were aflame, but to Hermione, it looked like sanctuary.

 

How she managed to get inside, how she suddenly felt as if all the dark, dead things outside would not harm her that night, she could not say.  All she knew was that she was again being pulled into chambers, all looted, all destroyed, until she was set down before a fireplace and given a plate of food which consisted mostly of canned fruits and meats.

 

When the cloak was doffed and a face floated before hers in the firelight, all Hermione could say weakly was:  “My hero, once again.”

 

Viktor Krum had not aged well, and it seemed that life had been as hard on him as it had on Hermione.  The scars across his dark brow, intersecting the bridge of his beaklike nose, it made him appear like one of the sculptures of Roman Emperors she had seen smashed in one of the chambers she had passed.

 

“Vhy are you here?  Vhere are your friends?” he asked, his thick fingers brushing her filthy hair from her soot-covered face.

 

“Dead, like everyone.  Why are you here?”

 

Viktor’s face darkened.  “My vife and I vere here on holiday.  She died veeks ago.”

 

Hermione wanted to seem sympathetic, but she had lost so many that her sympathy was all used before ever reaching Brighton.

 

“I tried Portkeys, I tried Apparation, nothing vorks,” Viktor grumbled rising to his feet before the fire.

 

Hermione watched him as she ate slowly, she knew he meaning all too well. 

 

Viktor was just as substantial as she remembered, and once again, he had saved her life.

 

They spoke at length about what they had seen, or had not seen.  Hermione was the first living person he had seen in weeks.  They spoke of what the cause of their entrapment on the island of Britain could be, and what had caused the Inferi to wake.  Neither had any answers.

 

“They vill not come to this place.  I do not know vhy,” Viktor answered when Hermione had asked if they would have to run again.  “It is safe here, ve can sleep.”

 

Hermione found herself in Viktor’s arms, just as small as ever against his hulking, muscular body.  In the firelight of one of the grandest fireplaces Hermione had ever seen, he kissed her, not caring that she was dirty and smelled of death.

 

To touch another living person was like breathing to Hermione.  Ever since Gloucester, she had seen no one.

 

Her hands ran along his scarred face, marveling the life she saw in his dark eyes, ignoring the fact that he was not handsome to her.  Her dirty fingers ran over the hard planes of his chest, down along a trail of dark hair to his hard member.  He grunted softly when she touched him.  Years and years before, he had been the one to take her maidenhead, and years and years before, he had saved her.  Her hero.

 

The manner in which his rough hands cupped her full breasts, the way he looked up at her as she positioned herself over his cock, it made Hermione feel safe—even it was for only one night.

 

Viktor, uncharacteristically, whimpered when Hermione took his length.  She could see the tears in his eyes, but she moved all the same.  Her hero was lost in his memories of another woman, one that he loved, and one who surely had a matching silver wedding band upon her dead finger.  Hermione did not cry, she had wasted her tears long before reaching Brighton.

 

Hermione rode Viktor, relishing the warmth of his large body, relishing the groans ripping from his throat despite his memories.  He felt so large inside her body, larger than he did the first time they had coupled years before.  As Hermione threw her head back to wail, her climax crashing upon her, she wondered if Viktor had had any children.

 

The world outside had gone mad, but Hermione did not care as Viktor manipulated her scrawny, malnourished body to rest above her, his thickly veined cock impaling her faster and faster.  She knew that the act, sex, was not out of love, and would not be ‘love’ for her for a long time.  The world outside had gone mad, and the sick, twisted truth of it all—what did make tears wet her eyes—was that she, perhaps being the last woman alive in Britain, could never act as an Eve.

 

Viktor cried her name as together they came, Hermione’s body arching into Viktor’s, her cries consciously muffled as not to arouse attention from the death outside.

 

Her hero’s seed scalded her skin even as they lay together, their thoughts on sleep.  It was then Hermione cried, silently.  Her poor hero…his reward would be as cold and lacking as ever.  Hermione wondered why Viktor seemed so adamant on saving her.

 

It was the world that needed saving, and not Hermione Granger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,090 words


	90. #90 - Villain - Severus/Lily

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #90 – Villain, how does one play a villain?

#90 - Villain

* * *

 

 

I know I am quite the villain, I set myself up to be so. 

 

“You just won’t stop, will you?” she asked me, her face red from anger.

 

Lily sat upon the step of the Astronomy Tower, and I stood below her, leaning against the wall, my hands shoved into my pockets, gazing down at my scuffed shoes.

 

“Why should I?  Potter and his gang won’t stop either.”

 

Lily’s hands were clasped before her, her elbows on her knees.  If I turned my head just right I can see up her skirt, I do this because she cannot see my eyes through my hair.  She wears pink knickers most of the time, but today they are red satin…  Lily changes them sometimes, and I know she does this because of James Potter.  I know they have started fucking, I can smell him on her.  But not today, not yet.  For now, I have her to myself.

 

“The both of you are just…” she hisses in disgust, shaking her head, her dark auburn locks falling about her shoulders.

 

I lick my lips as she leans back on the step, her elbows resting on the step above her.

 

“Just what?” I asked softly.

 

“Stubborn, stupid, I don’t know…” she sighs.

 

I lift my head to look at her, brushing my hair behind my ear.

 

Lily looks off into the distance, her green eyes catching the dim light from the torches below.  She is so pretty, she has always been pretty to me.

 

“Why do you like him, Lily.  For that matter, why do you keep talking to me?”

 

My voice is rough as she lets her knees fall open slightly, and I can just see all the way up her inner thighs.

 

“I like him because he makes me laugh…and I keep talking to you because you are my oldest friend, Sev,” she whispers, her eyes finally meeting mine.

 

I smirk.  “I don’t make you laugh?”

 

She laughs.

 

“You do, but…but we have to hide every time we want to talk.  It isn’t fair.”

 

I know, I want to say.  If only she was not so pure, and I so much like a villain, maybe we both would have been in Ravenclaw, at the very least.

 

“I want to be able to walk with you in the corridors.  I want to be able to go to Hogsmeade together.  I want to be able to laugh with you…” she whispers.

 

I know.

 

The Sorting Hat separated us.

 

I want to tell her that I love her.  I want to tell her that I would do anything to make her laugh.  I want to tell her that I wanted to be the one whose scent would coat her skin…

 

“Come here,” she says, her hand out to me.

 

I can never disobey, and I sit on the step next to her.  I stiffen as she leans against me, her arms about me, but slowly I relax as I smell her hair against my cheek, feel her warmth against my right arm.  I can even feel her breasts against me…

 

“To them…to James and others, you are a villain, and I bet that is exactly what you want to be to them.  But to me…you are Sev, my oldest and best friend,” she whispers, shifting to that I am forced to raise my arm and curl it about her.

 

Lily is pressed to my side, her face against my chest, her forehead against my jaw.  Slowly, I raise my other hand to touch her hair, and she sighs as I stroke the auburn softness.

 

How could anyone be so soft?

 

She tilts her face and presses a kiss into my sunken cheek and I begin to feel my face burn.  It was just a friendly peck, something she used to do when we were small, but now it makes me want something more.

 

I grasp her jaw and kiss her lips, closing my eyes, blocking out any expression of disgust she might make…

 

Lily kisses me back, and I suddenly find myself touching her.

 

My fingers skim along the waistband of her skirt as her fingers move along my neck, to my hair.  I can taste her mouth, feel her tongue prodding at mine.  I can only taste, feel, and smell her…and I want more.

 

“Snivellus!”

 

Lily is gone from my side, and I find myself sitting alone on the step, James Potter just below and Lily between us, her face stricken, but her lips swollen.

 

“You bastard!”

 

Potter’s wand is drawn, but I sit very still, my gaze moving to Lily as she edges down the steps and away from me.

 

“What were you doing to Lily?” Potter roars, his hand reaching for Lily.

 

I say nothing.  I cannot understand why Lily looks upon me like I were some disgusting thing…

 

“She doesn’t want anything to do with you, so you decided to force yourself on her?”

 

Lily’s face pales, and she opens her mouth to speak, surely to tell Potter he was wrong…

 

“I should take you to the Headmaster!  I’m sure raping a fellow student would get you sent to Azkaban!”

 

I finally understand.  She set me up to play the villain this time. 

 

I stand, smoothing my old, faded robes, but do not pull my wand from my pocket.  Potter is seething, his wand following my movement.

 

To play the villain’s role, I knew I had to arrange my ugly face a bit, and so I do.  Sneering, hideous, I grin.

 

“What would I want with a Mudblood, Potter?  Why sully myself with something you have already taken for yourself?  I don’t like sloppy seconds,” I growl.

 

Lily’s face crumbles, and so does a part of me.  To play the villain, you have to let parts of yourself die.  And so, I do.  I know I will lose Lily forever, but I never really had her in the first place, because I was always the villain, and beautiful angels like Lily Evans do not end up with villains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,007 words


	91. 91 - Slave - Hermione/Draco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #91 – Slave. If she had to make him her slave, she would.
> 
>  
> 
> For what I have written, expanding on this drabbe, visit my LiveJournal!

#91 - Slave

* * *

There was something slightly familiar about all of this, she thought.

 

“Don’t go, don’t leave me here alone.”

 

He was pleading with her the best way Draco Malfoy knew how, with a haughty smirk and flashing silver eyes.

 

Hermione Granger was trying not to think too much about her surroundings, standing on the tip of a high pinnacle of winding stone steps.  It was a ruin of a castle, reminiscent of Hogwarts, but not quite.  She had climbed the stairs to reach him, the infamous Ferret Prince, the ruler of the land of Malfoy.

 

It was Malfoy’s trapped mind, in truth, Malfoy unable to move beyond his brain, his subconscious.  Hermione found it to be a twisted Malfoy version of Wonderland.

 

Atop the highest point in the land of Malfoy, Hermione tried to keep her balance, the drop from the last broken step so high that there were clouds obscuring the ground below.  However, it was where she found him, the Ferret Prince, sitting on an elaborate throne on a cloud across a wide breach between stone and cloud.

 

“Stay with me.”

 

Hermione exhaled, unaware she had been holding her breath for so long.

 

The Ferret Prince, an apt name, she thought, was dressed in a costume worthy of a masque, his long silver tresses falling about his sharp face in shining strands and tiny braids with bones and feather woven within the hair.  He was devilishly handsome with a white fur lined cloak over his wide shoulders; ruffled shirt, tight breeches, and albino dragon hide boots with wickedly sharp silver spikes on the toes.  On his belt, he carried a long, thin sword with an emerald embedded in the pommel.

 

“I’ll give you anything you desire,” he said, leaning forward on his throne, but not rising.

 

Despite being devilishly handsome, Hermione could see that he was far too gaunt and pale, unwell and weak.  It was no wonder, she knew, the spell that had trapped Draco Malfoy like a prisoner in his own mind was beginning to destroy it as well.  She had come to hopefully reverse the spell, and bring Draco Malfoy out of his enchanted sleep.  She had braved the darkest parts of his soul; she had nearly died trying to get to the root of the problem, the Ferret Prince.  Now that she stood before him, he was begging her to stay with her in his decaying kingdom.

 

Hermione had thought that if she found the ruler of this mental kingdom, she would find the source of the spell, but as she stood at the very top of this world, she knew she was no closer to brining Malfoy out of his dream.

 

“Jewels, wishes, anything…” he continued.

 

Hermione felt a cold wind blow gently across her face, rustling her hair, which in Malfoy’s world was not as unruly and hideously tangled as it was in reality.  The wind had a scent that made her turn her eyes to what she had been assuming was north in this twisted kingdom.

 

“I will be whatever you want me to be…  Your prince, your lover...”

 

To the far north, in the darkness of the physical decay of Malfoy’s mind, Hermione saw a distant flash of light.

 

“Love me, fear me…”

 

She lifted her chin as she caught the scent of magic blowing from the void that signified the damage of the spell in Malfoy’s mind.  On the edge of the void was a light, like a lighthouse caught in a hurricane of black cloud. 

 

“I will be your slave.”

 

Hermione’s eyes moved back to the Ferret Prince, his words loaded with so much raw emotion that she almost believed he was weeping.  He sat back in his ivory throne, his chin resting on his fist, gazing at her so intently that she frowned.

 

“Slave?” she repeated.

 

“If that is what you desire.”

 

She teetered on the edge of the step for a moment, nearly tumbling down.  Hermione learned early that Malfoy’s brain retained the basic rules of physics, bar a few here and there.  If she were to take a step, she would tumble to her death, and dying in Malfoy’s mind would mean that her body in the real world died.  Dying was not on her list of things to do in Malfoy’s mind.

 

“Do you even know who I am?” she asked, her knees starting to wobble as the clouds below her moved and she could see the ground what seemed like thousands of feet below.

 

“Of course, I do.  This is my kingdom, I know who exists with in it,” the Ferret Prince drawled, letting his fist move to his lap so that he sat back into his airborne throne.

 

“Then you know why I am here?”

 

The Ferret Prince lifted his sharp chin, visibly rebuffed.

 

“You have worn me down, beaten me, and now you wish to annoy me with useless questions?”

 

Hermione had to kneel down, sit on the step to keep from falling, vertigo setting in.  It was clear that Draco Malfoy, the Ferret Prince, had no idea who she was.  If he did, Hermione was sure that she would have had a harder time getting to make contact with his ‘ego.’ 

 

‘Super-ego’ had guided her through the nebulous kingdom in the incarnation of ‘Corda,’ the man sized white ferret.  ‘Id’ had tortured her, poured its darkness upon her, and acted as the villain in the incarnation of ‘Daroc,’ the Death Eater cum Dark Lord of Shadow cum raw instinct.  Now, she sat regarding ‘Ego,’ the Ferret Prince, ‘Draco.’

 

If only the three could become one, as was natural, and help her reach the event horizon of the spell damage. 

 

Hermione sighed, weary, and began trying to persuade the Ferret Prince to come down from his ivory throne.  If she had to make Draco her slave, she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 976 words


	92. #92 - Freedom - Scorpius/Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #92 – Freedom. The truth set him free.
> 
> The last of three drabbles, beginning with #28, and continuing with #81.

#92 - Freedom

* * *

 

 

Professor Flitwick had stared at him for a long time he had asked if there was a simpler Charm to determine a person’s parentage or if two people were related.  In N.E.W.T. level Charms, all sorts of odd questions were posed, but Scorpius Malfoy knew that little, old Flitwick did not seem as surprised as Scorpius thought he would.

 

“There are potions, but Professor Slughorn is hesitant to point me to the right texts that would tell me the ingredients.  The only thing he did say was that if there was such a potion, it would take months to brew.

 

I don’t have months, Professor.  I graduate in _a_ month,” Scorpius explained softly.  And after graduation, Scorpius did not think he would find Rose again.

 

Filius Flitwick was a discreet man, liked by all his students in all Houses.  He was also an observant man, and for the past seven years, he had watched Scorpius Malfoy and Rose Weasley gaze at each other when the other was not looking during the shared Gryffindor/Slytherin Charms class.

 

As Filius Flitwick spoke, demonstrating the proper wand movement, and enunciating the incantation, he was not surprised that Scorpius Malfoy, Head Boy, could cast the spell after only one demonstration.  When Scorpius Malfoy left Filius Flitwick’s office, however, the cool, trademark mask of Malfoy power was still in place.

 

Scorpius Malfoy found Rose Weasley, Head Girl, a few hours later, sitting in their shared common room at the middle of Gryffindor tower.  The common room has halfway between the House dormitories, and was the only place beside their respective bedchambers, where they could speak openly to each other.

 

For nearly seven years, Scorpius had followed Rose, shadowing her every step and movement without notice.  For nearly seven years, Scorpius and Rose believed that they were half-brother and sister.  And after nearly seven years, Scorpius was going to put the matter to rest, once and for all.

 

Scorpius knew that Rose tried to convince herself that they were related, but as they grew up, from children to late teenagers, convincing herself was not so easy.  Rose had never looked much like a Weasley, but she did not resemble a Malfoy either.  The two knew that their parents had been romantically involved.  Scorpius assumed not long after the day his father Draco told him to stay away from Rose that there was something off about the girl.  It seemed that Rose’s mother Hermione had said similar words to her that day on the Platform.  In their young minds, after hearing the rumours about their parents, they began to believe that they were, in fact, half-siblings.

 

The allure of Rose had led Scorpius to want to be near her, half-sister or not.  As for Rose, Scorpius seemed to be the only person she could trust.  A friendship began early in secret.

 

However, as Scorpius moved silently toward Rose, his feet and robes making no sound as he crossed the common room, his heart ached.  If the Charm did determine that they were not related, seven years of stress and fear would diminish in moments.  But, if the Charm did determine that they were half-siblings, Scorpius knew that he would have to forcefully squash his untoward feelings toward his half-sister.

 

“Rose?”

 

She had been finishing the arrangements with the seating at the graduation ceremony, sitting before the near empty fireplace, her feet bare, her skirt bunched about her hips, several buttons of her blouse undone.  Scorpius quickly averted his eyes as Rose adjusted her clothing, not expecting him to be back from his private session with Flitwick.

 

Scorpius, still avoiding looking at the girl with toffee coloured hair, knelt at her side, sliding his dark wood wand into his hand.

 

“I wanted to see if you’d let me try a new Charm I learned,” he said quietly, and nervously.

 

Rose moved, sliding over the rug to face him, her legs bent beneath her.  “What sort of Charm?”

 

“Nothing much, really,” Scorpius gulped.  “It is more like a detector Charm—to find if someone has left a hex on you.  Remember how last week Hugo cast some unidentifiable hex that Professor Slughorn finally had to dispel?”

 

Rose sighed before nodding.  “Go on then—if it works, will you teach it to me?” she asked quietly.

 

Scorpius nodded, his shaggy silver blond hair falling into his pale face.  He explained that he needed to hold her hand as he cast the Charm, and as his large left hand enveloped Rose’s small right hand, he hesitated before casting.  Rose’s strangely coloured eyes watched as magic knitted about their hands, turning a bright blue colour before fading away.

 

Scorpius dropped his wand on the rug and squeezed Rose’s hand.

 

“What does it mean?” Rose asked innocently, her eyes studying Scorpius’ face, which was beginning to dampen with sweat.

 

Slowly, gently, Scorpius pulled his hand away, and snatching up his wand, stood to stalk to his chambers, slamming the door shut and locking it.

 

He could hear Rose huff, and could imagine her shrug.  She did not follow him as he pressed his back into the door of his chambers.  With a growl, he glided across the floor to his bed, tearing off his robes, his Head Boy badge, and threw them to the floor.

 

Charming the windows open, Scorpius leaned out of one and with a mighty breath, roared across the grounds and into a starry sky.  His mother had lied to him, his father had warned him for nothing.  Both his parents had been too stupid to discern the truth for themselves.

 

Scorpius Malfoy was free.

 

As he leaned out the window, his face pointed toward the stars, he wondered that if he told Rose the truth, would she believe him?  After seven years, he was free of the lie, but would the overwhelming truth of that freedom allow Rose to see his true heart?

 

He had loved her the moment his father pointed her out on the Platform, the girl he was to neither love nor hate.  Scorpius had defied his father by loving her, no matter whether she would be his sister or not.

 

And after seven years, the truth had freed him.  Rose Weasley was not his sister.

 

His freedom had come nearly too late.

 

He pulled away from the window, and moved to the door of his chambers.  Opening the door, Scorpius froze, for before him was the girl he loved, a devious grin on her face.

 

“It took you long enough to realize it, Flitwick showed me that Charm just after Christmas of Sixth Year…” she said calmly.

 

Scorpius blinked.  “You’ve known since then?”

 

“I was waiting for you to _want_ to know for certain.”

 

Scorpius swallowed thickly and brushed a hand through his thick platinum blond hair.  “You really did belong in Slytherin, Rose.”

 

Rose fell into him, embracing him tight.  “And you really did belong in Gryffindor.”

 

His arms wrapped about her, and he wanted to roar his freedom again.  It did not matter whose daughter she was, Rose Weasley was the girl he loved.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,180 words


	93. #93 - Quest - Hermione/Lucius

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #93 – Quest. He wanted to destroy me.  
> An aside for 'Whom the Gods Would Destroy'

#93 - Quest

* * *

 

 

The man was out to destroy me.

 

He sat across the table, smugly smirking as my solicitor read over the suit in his hand, muttering angrily.  All the while, my publisher was speaking softly.

 

“I can see how it might offend _some_ people in the Wizarding community, Mr. Malfoy.  However, there are no mentions of Death Eaters, Pure-blooded families by name, let alone recent events…”

 

I could only roll my eyes as Lucius Malfoy gazed at me.

 

“It is a children’s book, nothing more.”

 

“I beg to differ,” he drawled.  “It is a well disguised manifesto that promotes certain ideals that discriminate against an ancient tradition well known in the Wizarding world, Mr. Lewis.  While _Ms_. Granger advocates for equal rights for Muggle-borns, she discriminates against Pure-bloods, painting them as inbred sycophants to those who would threaten our collective lifestyle.”

 

Again, I rolled my eyes.

 

I had to get up early to come to Diagon Alley for a meeting with Philip Lewis, my publisher, Bennigan Fanley, my solicitor, and Lucius Malfoy, the man who threatened to sue the publisher over my books.

 

Mimsy the Mouse was a popular character in children’s books.  Dean Thomas did the illustrations that moved across the pages, in time with the words on the page.  I was surprised Malfoy did not summon Dean to the meeting as well.

 

“Simply because you have this notion that Octavian the Owl and Craggy the Cat somehow represent Voldemort and a Death Eater does not mean that is so, Mr. Malfoy,” my solicitor grumbled setting the several page suit on the table.  “They are archetypes only, characters that, if you would like to read the drafts for _Miss_ Granger’s next installment, are redeemed and eventually become friends with the main character.”

 

At Fanley’s words, I noticed Malfoy’s brow rise slightly, but still he smirked, sitting like a king at the head of the end of the table while I sat at the other end as a lowly peasant awaiting a judgement.

 

“It is a commentary to all children not to discriminate over something as passé as blood purity, among other things.  We have come far in this society that such a notion is no longer important,” Fanley finished.

 

I had done well in choosing him as my solicitor.  He was Pure-blooded, but liberal, forward thinking.

 

“So you see, Mr. Malfoy, there is no grounds to your suit that Miss Granger should somehow redact her work.  If there were such grounds, I would not have contracted Miss Granger in the first place,” Lewis said stiffly.  “All the same, I am happy that you have voiced your concerns with us directly, instead of writing another letter to the Prophet…”

 

I sighed.  Malfoy had only succeeded in wasting my time, and I supposed that was part of the point.

 

Approximately ten minutes later, I was walking to the lobby of the publishing house; ready to start walking back to my hotel room in Whitehall.

 

“Miss Granger?”

 

I paused, stopping just short of the doors, my eyes closing for a moment.  I turned slowly, Lucius Malfoy just behind me in his dark finery, complete with cane.  He stood much taller than I did, and it made me feel like I was Second Year again, meeting him in the bookshop.

 

“Come to aggravate me further, Mr. Malfoy?” I sighed.

 

“I’ve told you before, call me Lucius.”

 

The smug twisting of his lips was still in place, but as he gazed down into my face, there was a strange glint in his silver eyes. 

 

He had insisted that I call him by his first name, though I did not know why.  As far as I knew, the man could not stand the fact I existed.  However, he did somehow arrange situations where we would meet in public, a little too often.

 

“Well then, _Lucius_ , I am quite aggravated, a bit tired, and need to be on my way to make arrangements for a Portkey to the States, now if you’ll excuse me…”

 

I started to turn.  I had not lied my way out of this confrontation; I was due to meet with a contact in New York that night.

 

However, before I could turn, he grasped my arm, none too gently, preventing me from moving away.  I glanced to his hand, gloved, and followed his black clad arm to his pale, shrewd face.  Slowly, he released me, the smugness turning dangerous.

 

“This is not over, Miss Granger…”

 

I frowned.  I was not sure what he meant, exactly.

 

“If you mean me writing informative and uplifting books for children, you are correct.  Or if you mean dragging me out into a public setting to annoy and deride me to the point to ridiculousness, I will put a stop to that…”

 

He said nothing, even as I took a step back, realising how close he stood to me.

 

“One might think there is something more to this than your quest to keep a Muggle-born from succeeding, or keeping your idea of proper society confined to interbreeding with first cousins, _Lucius_.  Or is this the best you can do to place yourself near me for whatever twisted reason?”

 

It was spoken ala Malfoy, in a seductive drawl that made him blink at me, uncharacteristically.  Finally, he seemed to regain some sense of self, his eyes harder, his smirk returning.

 

“I simply wonder at your sanity, Miss Granger.  I question whether you are fit to write for children, filling their heads with nonsense and propaganda.”

 

I snorted.  “You simply refuse to see the true motivation of my work, Lucius.  If I can spare one child from being called _Mudblood_ , or enable a Muggle-born child to feel that they do belong in this world, then my quest, my mission, is complete.

 

Distribution extends to the Muggle populace later this month, and there is nothing you can do about it. 

 

Excuse me.” 

 

I turned on my heel, and strode to the door and out into the street.  Malfoy did not follow.

 

I knew very well that he would continue to try to bring me low.  Whether it was in written word or in person, Lucius Malfoy wanted to squash me under his expensive boot.  I knew why, for the most part, but there had to be more to it than simply intimidating another Mudblood for fun.

 

His eyes made my insides squirm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,061 words


	94. #94 – Journey - Hermione-centric

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #94 – Journey. The Fool’s journey is disencumbered.  
> An aside for 'The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man.'

 #94 – Journey

* * *

 

 

The goal was a settlement east of Ust-Avam, a journey in which Hermione Granger was loath to make in the bitter cold of the Arctic.  She had never been so far away from anything resembling civilisation, yet she walked through the Siberian tundra in what should have been a nice August day, wrapped in a fur cloak, with knee high fur wrapped boots upon her feet.  Warming and shield Charms kept the bite of the cold off her exposed chin, her eyes covered with goggles, her head under a thermal hat lined with more fur.

 

The Nganasan people had been quite kind in Ust-Avam after her inquiring as to the whereabouts of a shaman, the one called the Crone.  Hermione knew that by the way the people looked at her, the shape of her face, the tone of her voice, that they believed they would find her frozen to death into the snow—another outsider fool.  The Nganasan people were once a people of incredible magic, Hermione could feel it when she stood near them in the yurts.  The magic had died out; the Nganasan people only of a population of over eight hundred left from what had been thousands.

 

They were about to move south, many had already gone, but the people Hermione had found were waiting for a warm day to pull up the poles and move again as their people had always moved for thousands of years—south, in anticipation of deep winter.

 

The goal was the Crone.  Gather intelligence, an anthropological study of the remaining, true shaman left in the Arctic.  It was one of many tests Hermione had to pass to finishing her F.O.I.L. training.  She had spoken to a Yupik shaman only a week earlier, referring Hermione to seek the Crone in the ‘old lands of the ancient magic.’  The Yupik shaman had sensed Hermione’s power, and Hermione sensed the Yupik shaman’s fear of her and the spirits who walked in her shadow.

 

The Crone could call the spirits out of her shadow, the Yupik shaman said, and Hermione would be able to walk the world unburdened.

 

And so Hermione journeyed, and when she saw blue smoke in the sky, she knew she had found the Crone.

 

“I have been waiting all week for you, copper eyes.”

 

Hermione closed the flap of the small, strange smelling yurt, the only light coming from a pit fire in the middle of the structure, and from the bowl of a long stemmed piped perched in a near blackened, claw like left hand.

 

“Come to the fire.”

 

Hermione removed her goggles, knowing that the voice, which reminded her of rasping dead leaves, had not seen her eyes.  She complied however, tucking her goggles, gloves, and hat into the inside pocket of her Transfigured cloak.  Sitting across from the shadowed figure, Hermione waited patiently, her eyes peering through the fire to find a tiny figure of a woman. 

 

“You drag spirits into my tent, copper eyes,” the woman said again, exhaling fragrant blue smoke as she spoke.  Learning forward to knock the ash from the pipe, Hermione could see the Crone in the firelight.

 

The woman was ancient, but the only wrinkles upon her darkened face were about her thin mouth and her blazing blood coloured eyes.  Her hair was long and white, hanging about her thin shoulders much like Hermione’s, in tiny braids.  But in those braids were bones, beads, and eider feathers.  The Crone looked very much like a shaman would.

 

“The old walrus in the ‘new place,’ sent you here?”

 

Hermione took a breath, inhaling the smoke of the fire and the pipe.

 

“Yes.  He said that I had spirits in my shadow that you could call out…”

 

“And eat, yes.  The spirits have journeyed with you, and they mean you no good.”

 

Hermione frowned.  “I don’t understand.”

 

The Crone laughed, her hand moving to refill the herb in the pipe, and Hermione realised that her hands were not merely blackened, but tattooed extensively.

 

“You are a witch of the pale ones; the pale ones lost the language to speak with the spirits long ago.  It is no wonder that you had not noticed, copper eyes.

 

You are powerful, you have seen many things never to be seen by the eyes of the living, but you are still ‘The Fool.’”

 

Hermione recoiled, the Elder Wand slowly slipping from her arm holster and into her hand.

 

“A holy Fool who is on her journey toward freedom of the madness that has surrounded her.”

 

The Crone had noticed Hermione’s wand, and slowly Hermione shoved the Elder Wand back into place.

 

The red-eyed Crone locked eyes with the copper-eyed woman, and through the fire between them, they regarded one another.

 

“One spirit was good, and has left you of its own accord.  The one the drags upon you is the spirit of the one you killed—a friend who became an enemy.”

 

Hermione nodded slowly.

 

“Shall I pluck it from your shadow and eat it?”

 

“I wouldn’t eat that spirit,” Hermione whispered.

 

“Because it is a mad?” the Crone cackled.

 

Hermione nodded.

 

“No matter.  Only bad spirits are eaten—and shit out like the rubbish they are…”

 

Hermione smirked.   The Crone was mad herself.

 

“This spirit, he was a friend once…” Hermione began.

 

“Means nothing now that the spirit means to drag you back, copper eyes.  No love in that shade, no good will.  It will not let you go forward to where you need to go.”

 

Hermione closed her eyes.

 

“Will it hurt?”

 

The Crone cackled.  “You or it?”

 

Hermione said nothing, opening her eyes again.  When her eyes met the Crone’s, the woman’s face hardened.

 

“It will hurt, but you’ve hurt worse.  You bear the scars more beautifully than any man or woman I have ever seen—and I have lived twelve and two hundred turns about the Great Eye.”

 

Hermione was not impressed.  Little impressed her after seeing the face of the universe at the end of time.

 

“Do it then, what is your fee?”

 

The Crone grinned, revealing teeth that had been filed to points.  Hermione was not shaken by the demonic appearance.  “What I want, you would never give.”

 

Hermione narrowed her amber eyes, the Crone knew of the Hallows in her pocket.

 

“I will take nothing, copper eyes.  Eating a spirit will suffice.  It has been ages since I had such a powerful spirit.”

 

Hermione sat very still as the Crone rose from her place in fur pelts arranged by the fire.  The woman stood, at most, four feet in height.  She wore furs about her body, leaving her skinny legs and arms exposed.  And as she moved, Hermione cocked an eyebrow at the nimble manner in which the ancient Crone’s bare feet fell upon the furs.

 

“You have journeyed far, copper eyes, and with this spirit I pluck and eat…”

 

Hermione felt the claw like fingers dig into the back of her hair, the nails scraping her scalp.

 

“…the Fool takes one step closer to enlightenment.”

 

And there was considerable pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,179 words


	95. #95 - Triumph - Ron/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #95 – Triumph. Her mouth tasted almost as sweet as his victory.

#95 - Triumph

 

* * *

 

 

Pride was second only to the sensation of how she felt around his cock.  She had stopped fighting him, and her voice only said his name.  He had won, and the triumph was sweetened when he came, falling forward to trap her body against his.

 

She had fought him for years, their war was a silent struggle of wills, and finally it had come to the end.  Ronald Weasley had his Hermione Granger, once, and soon for all time.

 

Their war had begun before they even realised what attraction was, and it ended ten years after Voldemort fell for the last and final time.  In that time, Ron had said and done so many things to spite the woman he cared for more than any other.  His tactics had been immature and wrong at times, but triumph, victory, washed away his regrets.

 

Then again, he had one lingering regret, though lessened, but was still present in the back of his mind.  He had wanted to be her first.  The opportunity presented itself so many times when they were teenagers, but Ron knew…  He knew every single one she had ever been with or loved.  Her first had been Harry, and Ron could not feel angry about it—he had no right.  He had been the one who had left them during the search for Horcruxes.  He had been the one most weakened.

 

Her second had been a Muggle man, someone she had met at University.  Ron could not remember the unremarkable man’s name now.

 

Her third had been her lover, the one man who could threaten everything—Draco Malfoy.  He still hated the man, and knew she would never stop loving the man.

 

“Get off me,” she whispered, but there was little force in her voice.  It was a weak request.

 

Ron did not comply, but gathered her closer in his thick arms.  Hermione was so small compared to him.  Their teenage years over, Ron was still growing taller while Hermione remained at her smaller five feet and six inches.  While time made him bigger, stronger, time made her more beautiful.  Of course, if she were to put on a few extra stone and begin to go grey, he would still think she was beautiful.

 

“Please…” she whispered again, rustling his hair near his ear.

 

“Never.”

 

Hermione shifted slightly under him, making herself more comfortable.  Her heart still pounded and the sweat on her body was itchy against his chest hair.  Her pussy contracted, trying to expel his softening cock, but he would not leave her, if he had the choice.

 

“He’ll kill you, Ron, if he ever knew…”

 

Malfoy…  Ron grinned into her neck before kissing her skin.  It did not matter, he supposed.

 

“I will kill you,” she whispered, but the words seemed to have no meaning as her arms wrapped about him. 

 

They kissed slowly, deeply, and resolutely.  The war was never truly over as long as she still loved another man, but the neatly constructed façade she had made was cracking.  A crack was all he needed to slip inside.  He would come to her again and again, he would tear ever bit of her love for Malfoy out and place himself inside her.  He would win her, he would have her, and when he had it all, he would not let her go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 558 words


	96. #96 - Hurt - Scorpius/Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #96 – Hurt. She wanted to the hurt to feel good.  
> A companion piece to #34 – Not Enough.

#96 - Hurt

* * *

 

 

His mouth closed over hers, stifling the protest about to escape her lips.  He could not stand it any longer, so she had to understand…  Rose Weasley was his!

 

Scorpius Malfoy ground his body against hers, pushing her bare back into the stone wall in a niche just a few feet from the entrance to the Slytherin Common Room.  He had waited for her there, his grandfather mentioning the niche in a letter, a place that few knew existed, let alone Slytherins like Rose Weasley.

 

It was two days before the Leaving Feast, and the end of their last year at Hogwarts.  Scorpius knew he had to act before she slipped through his fingers for perhaps all time.  When she realised who he was, she did not hex him, as she seemed to want to do after being jerked into the hidden niche.  Instead, she kissed him, dropping her wand somewhere in the dark, tearing at his Gryffindor robes, his Head Boy badge, and his long silvery blond hair.  When they were both down to only their underclothes, Scorpius felt the haze in his brain lift.

 

“Malfoy…you…” she started, her hand brushing against the front of his plain white boxer shorts, causing him to inhale sharply.

 

Scorpius knew she had wanted to humiliate him somehow, so close to the serpents den…  He would never allow it.  He could be just as Slytherin as she, it was in his blood.  And that was how he had pushed her into the wall, kissing her soundly, his hands tearing away her brassiere and rough, Quidditch worn hands grasping the heavy globes in his palms.  Grinding his pelvis into hers, he could feel her heat, her dampness, and her hesitation.

 

“For seven years…” he breathed, finally pulling away for much needed air.  “You have hurt me so often,” he whispered huskily, just able to see her wide hazel eyes and the very pale smattering of freckles across her nose.

 

Rose licked her swollen lips, and smirked.  “I know.”

 

Anger surged through him, and with a flick of his wrist, her knickers were gone.  All that was left was the thin fabric of his boxer shorts, and already he could feel her wetness begin to soak through.

 

She whimpered softly, the first true sound she had made, and tried to move, to escape.

 

“No, you don’t,” he growled, a hand gripping her right breast tighter, the nipple peeking out between his knuckles.  “It is my turn.”

 

Her eyes widened, and her lips parted to gasp gently. 

 

Another flick of the wrist, and they were finally skin to skin, and Scorpius’ pale eyes narrowed dangerously, sheer pleasure replaced anger.  He was hard, harder than he thought possible, and he knew, as Rose knew, what was going to inevitably happen.

 

“Tell me you don’t want this, Rose.”

 

She said nothing, her eyelids falling shut.  Scorpius grasped her slender, perfect throat and bumped her unruly tawny head into the wall behind her.  Her eyes opened.

 

“I _want_ this…” she hissed in derision.

 

He grinned, twisting his hips so the tip of his cock fell into the cleft between her thighs, burying in the sticky dark curls.

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

Rose bit her lip roughly as he pushed inside, hoisting her upward along the wall, the head of his cock pulsing at the resistance he felt.  His hands slid down her sweaty body to her hips, and he bent his knees to surge up, pushing inch by inch inside.  Until…he could no longer slip inside her, there was a barrier blocking him from impaling her all the way to the root of his cock.

 

Her eyes met his in the near darkness, his silver eyes wide with shock, hers wide with a pain she was trying to hide.

 

“You don’t want this,” he whispered and began to pull out.

 

Small hands found his wrists, the hands bruising her hips, and stopped him.

 

“I want you to hurt me,” she whispered in reply, her voice tremulous, “and I want you to make the hurt feel good.”

 

Scorpius felt himself grow impossibly harder at the lewd insinuation in her soft voice.  He kissed her again, and wrapping his arms about her waist, pulled her from the wall to lay her on their clothes at their feet.  She kissed him in return, her fingers tangling in his mussed hair.  He was still only a bit inside, and as the kiss deepened, Scorpius hurt Rose Weasley.

 

She screamed shortly into his mouth, and he swallowed it.  He did not move for a few moments, relishing the tight hold Rose had about him, and then, when her hips bucked, Scorpius Malfoy made the hurt feel good.

 

“You are mine,” he snarled into her ear as he hurt her, and hurt her…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 797 words


	97. #97 – Heal - Severus-Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #97 – Heal. With her, he could begin to heal.  
> An aside to 'The Fool, the Emperor, and the Hanged Man'

#97 – Heal

* * *

 

 

It was hard for him to reconcile the girl with the woman.  Every time he looked at her young face, Severus Snape could only see tiny indications of the woman she would become, and it annoyed him.

 

The girl had nearly died following Potter into the Department of Mysteries, and Severus stood over her hospital cot watching her sleep a dreamless and painless sleep.  Severus was angry—angry with himself for not doing more to stop Potter from acting the fool and walking into a trap, and angry that the girl, Hermione Granger, would be so grievously injured in the process.

 

Severus shook his head; he was getting ahead of himself.  First, Potter would save the world, then Granger.  All the same, Severus knew if the Department of Mysteries were any indication, that Granger would need assistance if the future were to remain free of any more complications due to Potter’s existence.

 

Minerva made a sound from near the ward’s door, and Severus stiffened, his black eyes casting about the screened in portion of space around Granger’s bed.  Minerva was trying to tell Severus to hurry, Poppy would be back at any moment, and if they were caught…  Severus frowned, drawing his oak wand from his sleeve.

 

Severus felt like a teenager doing something that he should not, he was sure that Minerva felt the same.

 

Plots within plots, conspiracies within conspiracies, Severus felt a bit of satisfaction that he was doing something without the bidding of a master.  He had the girl to thank for that feeling.

 

With a deep breath, Severus began weaving his spell.

 

He pictured Hermione Granger, the girl pale and near death below his wand’s movement, and, in his mind’s eye, remembered Hermione Granger, the woman.

 

She had been like a vision, that was, until she touched him.

 

It had been in his chambers, the pain of his Dark Mark thumping through his body.  She and Draco Malfoy revealed themselves to him in a manner that seemed almost otherworldly, claiming that they desperately needed his help to stop Harry Potter from destroying their world.  Severus had not believed, not fully, until afterwards, until the Dark Lord had left Little Hangleton and several events Granger and Draco described played out.

 

Severus began incanting silently as streams of visible magic; blue in colour began drifting down to encapsulate the girl’s body.

 

When she had touched him, it was like touching a warm current of electricity, a humming that stirred something deep inside his soul that he had believed had died long ago. 

 

Desire.

 

So full of vitality and determination, the woman’s eyes glowed when they looked upon him.  Severus wondered what she saw when she looked at him.

 

In her eyes, he saw himself reflected back in copies of darkness.  In her voice, he heard tenderness, respect, and affection, all of which he wondered what he could have done to deserve.  In her touch, he felt love, forgiveness, and power.  He knew he was not deluding himself when he felt her love, Severus stopped deluding himself the day Lily Evans left his world to marry James Potter.

 

The spell was beginning to pain him, as he knew it would, but he set his jaw and continued, ignoring the blaze of pain that seared through his head.  His pain was healing the girl’s wounds, and Severus knew that with every intricate movement of his wand, he was giving a piece of his life, his soul, to her.

 

Surely, that night almost a year earlier, the woman had been carrying a piece of him inside her, a piece that had kept her alive to meet him in that moment.  The woman would not have been able to tell him that the reason he could not peer into her mind was because all he would see was himself, staring back at him.  Surely, she could not tell him the things he had deduced in the time he left her in the graveyard at Little Hangleton to that moment.

 

Severus knew that he would not live to see the Dark Lord’s demise.  It had been little things, body language, gestures that had clued him into that fact.  Draco Malfoy had been particularly stiff and wooden while the woman had been exuding warmth.  He knew he had not survived to see their future.

 

It did not matter.  Severus was used to playing the martyr although he hated it, and wished every other minute of everyday he could simply run away.  In his darkest fantasies, he would find a woman much like Hermione Granger, and live his life.  The Fates, however, had a different path in mind for him, and the spell that was beginning to pain him worse than the Torture Curse, had much to do with that path.

 

Sweat trickled from his temple, as did blood from his nose, but he continued.

 

He had fallen in love with the woman who the girl would become, and for her, as he wished he had done for Lily, he would sacrifice anything for a brighter day.  Severus would heal the wrongs, or try to, by giving a slice of himself to the girl who would teach him what it was to hope and love again.

 

When the spell was over and the girl’s body glowed blue once more, Severus fell to his knees at her bed side, his forehead resting on the edge of the cot, his stiff hands touching her forehead and her hip.

 

Lily had been a fool—that was what Severus saw and heard in Hermione Granger’s eyes and voice.  Severus could put Lily’s memory where it belonged, in the ground next to her dead lover.  Severus had hope again with the girl under his hands.

 

He had to heal the wounds inside, and hope, that when the time came, that at his death, his soul would live on to care for Hermione Granger, seeing the world through her eyes and love through her heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 995 words


	98. #98 - Dirty - Draco/Hermione

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #98 – Dirty. They had made a promise, long ago…

#98 - Dirty

* * *

 

She screamed as a cold hand wrapped about her bare ankle.  The shock of it all sent her falling to the icy ground, her cloak falling away from her shoulders, her body impacting roughly.  She continued screaming, as the muddy hand seemed to pull her into the ground, when in fact the body, to which the hand was attached, was using her weight to pull itself out of the ground.

 

In the moonlight and the fine falling snow, a body appeared from the ground, like an undead thing pulling up out of a grave.  Rationally, Hermione Granger knew that this was happening, but it still made her scream in fright.  She kicked, her thin slippers not meant for a fight and falling off.  She turned her body, her skirts riding up her legs to grasp at the grass to pull away.

 

It was impossible to break free.

 

Mud and earth fell upon her as icy hands grasped her wrists.  Melted snow fell from perfect silver skin to alight on her chest and neck.

 

A ragged voice was calling her name, but her screams turned onto to close mouthed whimpers.  Her eyes were welded shut—she did not want to see, she did not want to breathe.

 

The nude, icy body was real and heavy atop her own body, shifting against the cradle of her hips.  She could feel matted, muddy hair falling against her cheek as cold breath rushed against her face with every word…her name.

 

It was not until stony lips pressed against hers that her eyes opened.  All she could see was mud streaked skin, a dirty brow.  She could taste the soil and the staleness and when the body over her pulled away to gaze down at her with mercurial grey eyes, black dirt caking into every fine wrinkle of a face, Hermione cried out again.

 

A week ago, the face that peered down at her in the moonlight had been composed in death, lying in a rich velvet lined casket.  It was a face that she loved with everything she was, and to lose him had been worse than anything she had endured in all her life. 

 

How was this possible?

 

“Hermione…” he said, his voice ragged.

 

He was like a filthy god, silver obscured by mud.  In life, he would never be so dirty, in life; he would never be so cold to the touch.

 

Emotion flooded her and she sat up, wrapping her arms about his neck, no longer frightened, but relieved.  It was impossible, but she did not care.  She did not care if the grave dirty sullied her mourning clothes, she did not care if she could not feel his heart beating or his warmth.  She was with him again, and that was all that mattered.

 

He held her as if she was his only anchor in the world, he kissed her as if she were air to breathe, and when he bit her throat, he drank from her as if she were a fountain of life.  Hermione whimpered at the sharp pain, but soon his mouth, his teeth were gone and he kissed her again.

 

Blood and grave soil, it was if her lover was something of the earth itself.

 

Fangs glinted into the moonlight, as did preternatural grey eyes.  He _was_ a god to her, and he was with her again.  She knew what he was, but as he kissed her, pressing his burgeoning stiffness against her, it did not matter.  Nothing mattered.  Draco Malfoy was with her again, and as he drank from her again, she did not care she died in that moment, dirty and aroused, frightened and relieved.

 

They would be together, literally forever, and as he pressed his oozing, bloody wrist to her soiled mouth, she willingly drank.  He pushed inside her body, his organ pulsing as he gasped.  She drank and drank until her own vision turned as red as the blood she drank and his hips thrust against and into her body.

 

They had made a promise long ago, and soon the promise would be fulfilled in blood and dirt, sex and death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 689 words


	99. #99 - Clean - Sirius/Regulus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #99 – Clean. He would have a chance to be clean again.

#99 - Clean

* * *

 

A profane house that was what it was to him, yet it was a house that still had its share of happier memories.  As his grubby fingers ran over the clippings on the walls, he could not help but remember when Regulus put them there.

 

“You couldn’t find a more handsome hero?” he had said to him.

 

“What does it matter if he’s handsome or not?  It’s the power he has,” Regulus had answered.

 

He remembered scoffing, sarcastically.  “I’m much more handsome, and powerful than Riddle is…”

 

“That’s Lord Voldemort, to you,” Regulus drawled, smoothing the newest clipping close to the family crest over the bed.

 

He blinked, slightly affronted by Regulus’ tone, and then he grinned, launching himself off the foot of Regulus’ bed, tackling the younger teenager to the mattress.  Regulus was laughing, his wand falling from his fingers to the floor after using a sticking Charm to affix the clipping.

 

“Ah, but what if he were more handsome, more like me, what would you think then?”

 

Regulus grinned, his fingers reaching up to tug on long black hair, hair that was very much like his own. 

 

“Well…” Regulus sighed. 

 

He remembered stroking Regulus’ cheek with his right hand, a cleaner, younger hand that now stroked the dusty duvet next to where he sat on the bed.

 

“Well?” he remembered daring.

 

“Depends.  He would have to convince me he was worth believing in, I suppose,” Regulus had said, his thumb brushing over his lips.

 

He remembered playing at being offended.  “You mean, you don’t believe in me?”

 

Regulus chuckled, his thighs parting to let him rest more comfortably above…  “All younger brothers should believe in their older brother, I suppose…”

 

He remembered grinning before taking Regulus’ mouth, kissing him as he had always kissed him when he was delighted in Regulus’ words.  What his younger brother lacked in looks, he made up in words and charm.  It was the reason Sirius loved Regulus.

 

There had been fights, he remembered, terrible disagreements over Regulus’ obsession with ‘Lord’ Voldemort.  There had been fights at school when James would sometimes stick his nose in where it did not belong.  Sirius was perhaps the least ‘Black’ in the family, but it was still his family, at least for Regulus’ sake.

 

“You can be so…” he remembered Regulus had tried to say when Sirius kissed the boy’s throat, pulling open his impeccable black dress shirt, pushing the green cravat aside.

 

Regulus sighed as Sirius pushed open the shirt, trying to strip it off.  Sirius remembered Regulus distract him from removing the shirt, knowing, in hindsight that Regulus did not want his older brother to see the fresh, new Dark Mark.

 

Oh, if only he had known, he thought.  He would have taken Regulus away from Britain.

 

“…infuriating,” Regulus had breathed when the front of his trousers were open and Sirius could take in the scent of clean, mint, and light musk. 

 

The memory was terrible and beautiful, the last time they had been together…

 

His lovely brother, his dear heart—Sirius held his disgusting hair and unshaven face in his hands.  He had not dared to think of Regulus in Azkaban.

 

He did not think about how he smelled, or how he tasted.  He did not think of how lovely his brother was, the sound of his sighs and moans when Sirius sucked at the hot flesh, the stiff shaft, the soft black hair surrounding his organ tickling his nose.  He did not think of how deceptively forceful Regulus could be, bending him over the end of the footboard, touching him in a way that only one other would ever touch him—one who was now dead.

 

Tears streamed from his red-rimmed eyes, making clean tracks on his sunken cheeks as he clutched his middle and bent over to let a sob pass.

 

“I could be like ‘him’ someday,” Regulus whispered, his fingers slipping into Sirius, spreading, preparing.  “The both of us…so powerful, handsome…someday a boy will have clippings of _us_ on his wall…”

 

The smooth slide had nearly undone him, and Sirius remembered his grey eyes rolling back at the first thrust.  Regulus had strong hands, small hands, a Seeker’s hands, and when they pulled at his sac, Sirius would always whisper:  Regulus…

 

It would always get rougher, the dark, wicked internal pains Regulus harboured would burn into him, tear into him when fingernails raked down his back.  Sirius could still feel the scars when he would touch parts of his thin back.  An eternal reminder of a time when all that matter was how much he adored Regulus.

 

“Harder,” he would say over his shoulder, grey meeting grey.

 

Sometimes it was like looking in a mirror, when their eyes met.  Sirius remembered the last time, he saw despair.

 

Regulus rolled him onto his back, leaning forward to kiss him, biting into his lower lip until blood mixed in their mouths.  One small hand stroked him roughly, painfully; the other shoved long white fingers into his mouth, gagging him.

 

“Some days…” Regulus gasped, his thin hips slamming into his bottom, cock burying deeper as Sirius lifted his feet to rest them on Regulus’ shoulders.  “I hate you…”

 

Fingers slipped from his mouth, trailing blood and saliva to his nipple, pinching hard, breaking skin.  When the dampened hand replaced the dry hand, Sirius remembered groaning, his hands grasping the duvet under him.

 

“And some days…”

 

His back arched as come flew from his cock, into his mouth, into his eyes.

 

“I love you.”

 

Regulus thrust twice more, harder than ever, and with a strangled gasp, pulled from Sirius, moving over the mattress to sit on Sirius' chest, cock slipping between his bloodied lips.

 

“Today is such a day, brother.”

 

It would be the last time, Sirius would find.  It would be the last time his brother would speak words of love—speak words at all.

 

He had swallowed every bittersweet drop; he let Regulus lick off what was on his face, kissing him, touching him, torturing him.  They only lay together for a short while before Kreacher came into the room, announcing:  “It is time, dear heart…”

 

A pet name, one that Sirius called Regulus ever since Sirius was three years old playing with Regulus as a baby.

 

Kreacher would never utter those words again.

 

A profane, bleak house it was, after so many years.

 

Sirius had never intended to return; yet, he had, out of necessity.  ‘Lord’ Voldemort had taken Sirius’ ‘dear heart,’ and finally Sirius could try to be clean again with a second chance at revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,096 words


	100. #100 - Wicked - Angelina/George

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> #100 – Wicked. Angelina loved his wickedness.

#100 - Wicked

* * *

 

 

“George Weasley, you are simply wicked!” she exclaimed, nearly dropping a box of Skivving Snackboxes on top of her head.

 

Angelina Johnson huffed, trying to ignore the fact that her fiancée had his head up her skirt as she stood upon a ladder in the backroom of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes.  She had been recruited to help in the shop after George’s usual shop girl was out sick.  It was truly inconvenient since Christmas was days away, as was her wedding to the man under her skirt.

 

Finally getting the cardboard box on its appropriate shelf, Angelina gasped the top of the ladder to keep from falling, George’s tongue was wetting her knickers, in turn causing her body to dampen the thin fabric with her own wetness.

 

“This really is not the time,” she gritted out, her hands gasping the wood of the ladder, and her chocolate eyes drifted shut.

 

George’s voice was muffled against her centre, but she understood his words.

 

“Shop closed…your thighs so soft…” or something like that.

 

Angelina gasped as George’s hand snaked up her inner thigh and two fingers tugged the elastic of her knickers aside so the tip of his nose brushed against the dark thatch of hair of her mound, downward to nudge her clit.

 

“Wicked Weasley…” she whispered as the tip of his tongue slipped inside her.

 

Whimpering, Angelina’s knees began to shake from the sensation of her fiancée’s tongue lapping at her juices, tracing the ragged edges of her orifice, while intermittently taking teasing swipes at her nubbin.

 

George always surprised her, catching her off guard to destroy her façade of complete control.  She loved that about him.

 

Throwing her head back, her black tendril braids falling heavily against her back, Angelina groaned, grasping the ladder as her only means of support.

 

George hummed into her core, his fingers moving to spread her nether lips to devour her deeper, to push a digit into her clenching pussy.  She could feel a day’s worth of stubble rasp against her soaking flesh, and feel his hot breath streaming from his nose to disturb her curls.  George always relished her taste, and Angelina relished the way his teeth scrapped against her clit and his thick fingers pumped against her.

 

“George!” she gasped as her climax crashed over her, unexpectedly.

 

Her vision dimmed for a split second, but that was all the time it took for her to release the ladder, and begin to fall to the storeroom floor below…  She never hit the stones.

 

He had caught her in his arms by some feat of magic, and easily carried her down the ladder, laying her on the floor.  George’s blue eyes glittered with a smile, as he threw her skirt back from her mocha coloured legs, and winked lasciviously as he moved to kneel between her thighs.

 

“Should I change the shop’s name to ‘Wicked Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes’ or should I only give you some of my ‘Weasley’s Wicked Wizard…Willie?’”

 

Angelina burst out laughing even as George pushed down his unzipped trousers, his thick, erect ‘willie’ slapped against his red curls, arcing toward her with a glistening, purple head.

 

“The latter will be fine,” she laughed, lifting her knees and spreading her thighs.

 

George grinned, crawling forward, his hands resting on either side of her head, his blue eyes gazing down into her brown eyes, his shaggy ginger hair falling about his face and over the maimed ear he had lost.

 

She loved him.  Sex was never dull, and neither was any other time when they were together.  George Weasley was wicked, but that was just the way Angelina wanted him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 606 words

**Author's Note:**

> 100 Moments was initially hosted at my LiveJournal with pairings suggested by commenters. I am presenting the series on this archive for the first time. Each entry is less then 1500 words. Please refer to chapter titles for pairings--avoid those pairings you hate or read those that appeal to you most or discover a new ship. Word counts will be listed in author notes. Thank you for reading.


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